


And Every Skyline

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: AUs, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection, answered prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-31 06:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 49
Words: 71,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6460150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of prompts/requests filled for Imagine Gallya. </p><p>"Maybe I'll see you in another life, if this one wasn't enough."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. AU - Highschool Prom

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Leçon de Russe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9551768) by [EastDuquesne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EastDuquesne/pseuds/EastDuquesne)
  * Translation into Français available: [Gardé par un Angelot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10712580) by [EastDuquesne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EastDuquesne/pseuds/EastDuquesne)



> All of these are mine from my sideblog at Imagine Gallya. I decided to cross post them so everyone can enjoy them, not just people who follow us on Tumblr. I will try to post any trigger warnings before each prompt! Thank you all so much for reading. I am always accepting requests on my personal blog: @elektranatchiohs

**prompt: high school AU where tol shy boy illya asks smart smol girl gaby to prom!**

 

He sort of shouts it at her at first.

The question leaves him loud and off-key, stumbling over his accent as he looks down at the girl walking along side him. Her nose buried in a book. The sudden sound drags Gaby from her reading, causing her to let go of her book with one hand. She moves her hand to push the glasses back up the bridge of her petite nose.

“I’m sorry, what?” Her brows start to crease and she looks more confused than shocked at the sudden outburst. In fact if he hadn’t made a sound she probably would have kept walking past him, nose deep in academic studies. Her brown eyes focus on the quiet exchange student, the one she’s pretty sure has never spoken a word to her. He is however, always in the library always reading. Just last week he had managed to get a book off the top shelf for her after watching her struggle for several minutes.

“Illya?” Gaby asks quietly, shifting in the hallway trying to avoid the onslaught of students moving to their next class. No one is paying them any attention.

Just as he gets the courage to open his mouth again the bell rings and silences him. He snaps his mouth shut with his cheeks turning a soft shade of pink and then red. He can feel the edges of his face burning and suddenly his throat is all tight. Illya looks over her head to another “PROM 1960!” poster stuck on the wall. Those posters have been covering the school for weeks now.

The shorter woman moves the book in her hands, closing it and hugging it against her chest. She lets out a sigh as her patience dwindles to almost nothing. “I have to get to class. Whatever it is can wait.”

She’s leaving, but before she can go Illya reaches out and grabs gently on to her free arm. His fingers wrap around the bend of her elbow as he urges her to stop, “I-.” He starts listening to his voice go up a little too high.

Clearing his throat he tries again, “I want to go to prom. I mean,” He stumbles again watching her lips turn up into one of those cat-like smirks. She knows what he’s about to say but doesn’t cut him off yet. She is too busy enjoying the red creep over his face. The deep blush turns his boyish face all the different shades of crimson before he manages to find his words just as the tardy bell rings once more.

“I simply meant, I would like to go to prom with you.”

Her smirk doesn’t fade as she reaches up once more to push her glasses up like some nervous habit. Gaby starts to nod her dark head to him before answering, “And I would like to go to class, but we can also go to prom.”

She leaves him there, almost skipping away from his towering form in the hallway. He’s blushing fiercely and there is a smile on his face that doesn’t even fade when he gets detention for being late.


	2. Illya/Gaby - Patching Up Russian

**Imagine Illya being hurt on a mission and Gaby has to take care of him. - TW: Blood**

 

There’s an explosion of gunfire by the time Gaby makes it out of the warehouse. Her dark gaze is on the car that is idling by the sidewalk. In the driver’s seat is Napoleon waiting on them. For a moment she has no idea where her partner is as her feet take her towards the car. Wrenching open the passenger door, Napoleon is shouting at her.

 

“Where is Peril?” His voice is sharp and she can barely hear it over the gunshots still ringing in her ears. 

 

“He should to be out already!” Gaby hisses out the words before there’s a loud thump against the back of the car. Both of the agents look up and over to see their third person leaning against the trunk, holding himself up. Illya looks rough, his face coated in dark smudges. He is also clutching his side, groaning something out in Russian. Gaby is almost certain it’s a string of curses. She doesn’t get to ask him for a translation though, as back doors to the warehouse fly open with another round of automatic gunfire. Moving to the back of the car she stretches a hand out and grabs on to Illya’s upper arm. He almost completely collapses on to her. Now she can see why he’s been holding his side where there is quite a bit of blood. Her stomach drops as she moves around the back of the car and manages to get him across the backseat. Gunfire rings off again and this time it’s too close.

Gaby climbs in to the backseat as well, half squishing her injured teammate as she closes the door, “Go!”

 

She shouts to Napoleon who hits the accelerator and jumps the curb. The back window shatters as a stray bullet runs through it. Gaby quickly lays across Illya’s back to avoid the sprinkling of glass. The motion does nothing but make him groan again. When she looks at him, his eyes are shut. His lips are tight and he’s sweating. She can see the sweat beading up and sliding down the edge of his sharp jawline.

“We need to get him somewhere safe. He’s hurt. Really hurt.” Gaby’s voice waivers for a moment because she’s not used to seeing her Russian friend the one in danger. Usually he is the one saving them. Not the one laying in the backseat of a stolen car, bleeding out. She moves her smaller hands over his own, lifting his palm for a moment. There’s a gush of crimson and she quickly pushes his hand back down adding the pressure of her own. She moves her fingers down a bit to check the backside of him, rolling him just a bit more on to his side.

This stirs something in the man under her. “Stop it.” Illya is trying to push her off with a nudge of his elbow. “You no touch.”

His accented voice is like a low growl which makes her want to growl back at him like a child would.

“You stop it! You’re hurt.” She states it like he has no idea how bad his injuries are.

“I’m no doctor but, there is a first aid kit under the passenger seat. Patch him up until we get somewhere safe. Think of him like an engine. A poorly made Russian one.” Napoleon is trying to be clever but all it does is stir Illya up. He tries to sit up as if to challenge Solo in a fight. With an exasperated sigh and wrinkle of her nose, she shoves him back down and points a finger in Solo’s direction.

“You, drive.” She tells him wrinkling her nose before pointing that finger back to Illya, “You, stay!” With those orders she ducks down under the seats to pull up the small metal case of the first aid kit. It’s old and rusting on the sides, but she ignores this trying to pry it open. The case gives a squeak and opens to only show her a roll of bandages and a few tubes of anti-bacterial ointment.

“There’s no aspirin in here.” Gaby comments, “Or sedatives. I think he’s been shot.”

“Knife.” Illya comments and Gaby almost drops the first aid kit before fishing out the bandages. Napoleon is driving like a madman. His skills are being tested as he weaves in and out of traffic to lose any potential tails. With everything rocking and moving back and forth, Gaby somehow manages to squish herself on the edge of the seat comfortably enough to check on his wounds. Her hand reaching down and gently nudging his aside. Illya is reluctant to move his hand. His breathing is slowly picking up, but he does eventually move his hand up just enough for her. 

Gaby focuses on the red stain across his gray shirt before moving her fingers down and pushing the fabric up. It sticks to his skin under all the blood and his lips twitch when she finally gets it free, pushing the fabric up a bit more. A fresh trail of blood starts it’s descent down his side but she quickly blots it away with a clean side of a bandage. Moving her fingers carefully over his side, she inspects the wound. There’s not a whole lot to see in the dark backseat of a car, but it doesn’t look deep. He may not need stitches, but he does need it to be bandaged tightly. Her hands are made for engines and carburetors. They’re not meant for human patchwork. She can plug tires and clean valves but she for some reason is a shaking leaf when it comes to patching up Illya.

Her teeth sink low in to her bottom lip as she starts to dab anti-bacterial ointment on the edges of the wound. His pale skin is pink and red, angry with with the fresh wound. His jaw is clenched tight and she can see his fingers tapping along his side as she carefully cleans the edge of the wound. Her own hand is shaking by the time she manages to push the bandage over his side. Gaby carefully pushes down over his side, securing the wrap before his hand moves up. His fingers catch her bloody ones and holds them still for a moment.

“Chop shop girl.” He breathes out her nickname with his head lulling back against the backseat. His chest is moving a little more pronounced than usual and she’s starting to get worried as she leans over him a little more. His fingers tighten over her own as he grits his teeth, “You are terrible nurse.”

“Illya!” She goes to chastise him, yanking her fingers away, but he holds tight. He moves his hand over hers and lets out this breathy chuckle.

 

“But I will survive. Thank you” It’s the only gratitude he gives her before letting his eyes close. Napoleon assures her he’ll be fine until they’re back at the safe house. Even so, she doesn’t leave his side and he keeps his hand on hers until finally falling asleep.


	3. Established Jealousy

**Prompt: established!Gallya: Gaby is friendly on the resident UNCLE hq mechanic and Illya wouldn't be jealous if not for the fact that the man's almost as tall as him w/ the same blonde hair and blue eyes and may or may not have an impeccable English accent and a vast knowledge of all topics Gaby is interested in and does not criticize her fashion sense and/or her cooking and seems to have complete control over all his emotions and Illya realizes that he's everything Illya can be for Gaby except better.**

 

The garage is full of the latest gadgets and tools for the new models of cars that come in and out of Uncle. It also feels like home to Gaby as she moves around one of the open boxes, listening to the sound of an impact drill going through the bottom of a clogged carburetor. It’s here she steps over a man’s leg, peering down into an open hood, not caring that her expensive blouse is rubbing against the dirty grill. She grins down past the engine, “Good morning Remy!”

It’s a cheerful greeting to the man she’s befriended in the garage. He reminds her of home some days, the good days of home at least. Where she didn’t care that oil permeated her skin or that her clothes were in a constant state of being dirty. She only cared that broken things got a second chance. The English mechanic rolled his way out from under the car and sat up, rubbing a rag over his hands.

“Good morning Miss Teller.” He has impeccable accent that compliments his blue eyes and his white smile. Gaby waves a hand at him as she moves back to the table, producing a small brown paper bag for him, extending it out.

“Gaby, I’ve told you to call me Gaby. And here, I come bearing breakfast in exchange for a story.” She waves the bag at him and the man is quickly up on his feet for the chance at a breakfast sandwich she’s swiped from the kitchen. This has become their routine on early mornings when she’s not away on missions. It’s always early before Illya even wakes, if he even notices her absence. He never seems to sleep, but his eyes are closed when she leaves his bed. Eventually she makes her way across the Uncle safe haven to start her morning with Remy. She’ll bring him breakfast in exchange for information on some of the newer model engines that come through the agency. Uncle is at the top of its game in both technology and transportation. It also doesn’t hurt to have a backup incase she ever gets tired of the whole ‘agent’ game. Illya seems to be made for it, but Gaby? The more she looks at her calloused fingers, the more she wonders if sometimes she would be better off in the garage. It’s fun for a while, traveling and dressing up, but it does get tiring. Not to mention Illya is always criticizing her clothes, always chastising her for dirt under her nails, but he does have a soft spot. She knows he does. Remy takes his place across from Gaby where he’s leaning over the table much more than her with his tall form towering over her own.

—

Illya knows when they’re home on a mission that she is first to slip out of the bed. It’s been happening more frequently since their return, but he pushes it aside always waking when she starts moving. His mind is constantly on alert, even in the early morning hours when his little Chop Shop Girl is wiggling out of the sheets. She doesn’t move as quietly as she thinks she does. While she slips out of their shared room, he spends a few more minutes in the warm bed. He’s recovering from their latest excursion, exhausted and while he wants to go back to sleep, but it’s difficult without Gaby’s warm body pressed into his. Eventually he moves himself out of the bed to get motivated for the morning. He’s easily accommodating to the mornings, stretching out his muscles and taking a quick shower.

His blond hair is still damp when he makes it downstairs to an empty kitchen. The whole headquarters is empty. It’s still early and most of the staff is probably still asleep or taking the day off. It isn’t until he hears a familiar laughter echoing through a wall that he decides to follow it. It isn’t hard to find where the woman who normally curls up next to him has gone. He moves down the stairs with that stealth-like grace that always accompanies him on missions. His feet are light, his weight is well balanced, he makes almost no sound as he makes his descent into the garage of Headquarters. The smell of race gas and cosmoline assaults his nose and he frowns moving down a few more steps, already ready to go back to his room and change clothes. He keeps going though, curiosity getting the better of him as he moves towards the sounds of vibrant conversation. Illya barely makes it to the landing at the end when he sees something that catches him completely off guard.

Gaby is almost elbow deep in smudges and grease but that’s not what’s different. She’s laughing, head tilted back with that wide smile of hers. She’s laughing as an Uncle mechanic reaches over and wipes his dirty thumb across her cheek. Anger suddenly surges in his body. It’s white hot and blinding. His fingers tap the edge of his pocket, ticking at each beat of his heart. He can feel his jaw clenching tightly and his teeth have already started grinding when he watches Gaby say something in that low German tone of hers, something about a new spark plug being needed for an ignition switch to work properly. 

When the man speaks all Illya can hear is an English accent and then he steps into view, closer to Gaby. He’s tall, almost as tall as Illya with a shock of blonde hair and a charming smile. The man is covered in grease as well but he’s not chastising Gaby one bit for her dirty exterior. Instead he says something about ordering parts and how he could use the extra hand of hers.

“Your smaller hands may actually help me more here than in the field.” The mechanic is charming his way closer to Gaby and she’s not pushing him back. Instead she’s got that cat-like smile of hers on and her brows are raised.

“Really now?” She sounds almost hopeful. Like she had when Illya had given her that ring on her finger. The ring had come from their first mission which was almost a year ago, she rarely took it off. She wore it like a wedding band even if if they hadn’t been exclusive until as of recently. Now she wasn’t even paying him the least bit of attention. Her brown eyes were on this mechanic who was telling her she looked better under some engine than in the field. Illya almost scoffed. Gaby looked beautiful out in the field – at least he always dressed her to be that way.

His rage bubbled up once more but he held it down with a deep breath, watching as Gaby rolled her eyes and smoothed her dirty hands over a rag off to the side. She wiped away most of the grime, “I don’t think that is a good idea. They need me on the field.” She almost sounds like she’s trying to convince herself of something, but what Illya doesn’t know. All he knows is that she’s speaking to this mechanic with a very serious tone, “But it would be nice to get back to it all. I started in a garage when I was eight you know.”

The rest of this breakfast conversation is light hearted with a few snickers in between their words. Illya almost hesitates to interrupt them, especially when Gaby says something about having recent downtime but he doesn’t. Instead he feels a sting of hurt, something he isn’t used to. The sinking feeling in his stomach has him turning around, moving back up the steps quietly. He paces around the open kitchen for a while, attempting to eat but his stomach won’t let him. His steps are sharp and measured, his head down, hands balling into fists every few feet as he contemplates the whole conversation he overheard down stairs.

She is unhappy. The woman he shares his bed with is unhappy. He wonders for a moment if this is something on his part but quickly pushes that idea away. He couldn’t possibly be the reason for her unhappiness. Then again, this mechanic – this man with a charming smile is down there making her laugh. He’s making her smile with his dirty hands and talk of motorized vehicles. There’s a chance he’s a better man than the Russian. He probably hasn’t had a kill list like his own. He probably doesn’t even lose his temper.

This mechanic probably has a normal family. Not a broken one like his own. Not a dishonorable shadow like his own. This only surges him on in his pacing. At this rate he’s likely to wear a hole in the floor, pacing back and forth wondering if Gaby is better off with a better choice.

Plus, he seems to be so much more charming than him. He must be, because she’s so entranced by his words. She’s enjoying his company. It had been plain as day in her body language towards the mechanic. Illya paces the kitchen a few more times, his fingers starting to tick once more, flexing his fist he contemplates heading down the stairs again when the door opens and Gaby steps out. She has a swipe of grease down her tan cheek and she’s covered in dust and dirt. He almost opens his mouth to tell her to shower but stops. Instead he says something that would even make Napoleon angry with him, “Do you want to leave me for him?”

“What?” Gaby is completely sideswiped by his accusation. Her brows furrow and she’s giving him a look as if he’s lost his mind somewhere between last night and this morning, “What on Earth are you talking about?”

Her dark head is shaking to him and then it’s like a light goes off in her head and anger quickly crosses her features. Her lips part and Illya knows she’s going to scream at him but he cuts her off with his index finger pointed at her. “Don’t –”

This time Gaby cuts him off. She slams both of her dirty hands down on to the clean counter top and shouts at him, “Illya!” He almost winces at the way his name rolls off her tongue like an insult. Her voice is shrill and sharp like broken glass, “Don’t you dare say those next words!”

Her own index finger is pointed at him. She’s a good head or more shorter than him but in this moment, he’s slightly frightened by the anger welling up in her eyes. Just the other night he had been kissing her red cheeks, and smoothing down that crinkle in her brow, but right now he was almost too afraid to step anywhere near her. In fact by the tone of her voice, he feels a tiny bit of shame. If he could apologize he might, but he doesn’t want to apologize for thinking she would be or could be better off without him. She could live happy outside of Uncle. She could be happy away from the KGB shadow that will always follow her as long as he’s around. Illya turns his head down. His blue eyes are tracing down the outline of his shoes.

When he doesn’t move, she steps forward. Her dirty hands move up and before he can look away from her, she’s grabbing on to his cheeks. Gaby forces him to look at her. Her fingertips are leaving dirty grease marks as he reaches up and wraps both of his bigger hands around her wrists. He pulls her hands down and she leaves dark trails over his morning stubble, “Gaby,” Illya’s accent is thick and her name is a whisper on his lips.

“Don’t be –,” Gaby starts her words softly but something stops her. She glances behind her at the door to the stairs where just a few minutes ago she was all laughter and smiles with Remy. Her lips purse as she turns her brown eyes up to look to him.

“He can be much better for you.”

“I don’t want him.” Her words waver for a moment, eyes swimming softly at her own words.

Illya’s fingers smooth over her wrists and he turns them over, letting his thumb brush over the pulse point, “You can do what you want to do with him. You could build your engines in your own little chop shop.” He feels a small smile on the corner of his mouth but it’s gone in an instant as she’s pushing up on the tips of her toes, pressing her mouth over his. It takes him a moment to realize she’s kissing him, but it’s all they have left. All the words between them are gone and he’s pulling her up closer to him.

Then before he can sink into Gaby, she’s breaking away from him, “I don’t want a chop shop,” She mimics his accent horribly, it makes him want to smile. “I want you.”


	4. Established Proposal

**Imagine Illya proposing to Gaby , but she only thinks it's for the next mission.**

Their next mission takes them to Greece. At least, that’s what the paper in her hand says, Illya can see the smudgy lettering of the typewriter under her thumb before she pushes the paper in his direction. On the kitchen counter is a mess of similar papers, all off-white with dark lettering typed across them. There are a few photos paper clipped along the edges, all with mug-shots of their next marks. Gaby’s fingers are smoothing over another photo when he pulls his coffee mug up to his lips, hiding a small smile. Today is the day, he’s planned it so perfectly that even the annoyance of a new mission being thrust upon them doesn’t even bother him. Taking a quick sip, he sets the mug back down and edges off of the stool that lines up with the breakfast counter in their shared apartment. It had been Illya’s idea when they decided to stop dancing around one another’s feelings, to create a safe haven for the two of them. That had been over a year and a dozen missions or more ago. Though he still traveled to his beloved Russia, he stayed more and more in the safe haven apartment he had created with Gaby along the Swiss border. It was hard to stay away from her for long.

She reaches past him, interrupting his thoughts to steal his mug away. She wraps her calloused little fingers around the warm mug and pulls it to her lips. After a sip though, she makes a face. Her lips twist from the bitter flavor of black coffee touching her tongue, “Oh disgusting!” Her accented words are light and she sticks out her tongue as if to make the taste go away.

This causes another ghost of a smirk to touch his lips, “What do you expect day after day? Same coffee, same mug, you make same face.” He’s teasing her in his own way, reaching over and taking his mug back. Gaby turns her head up to him, closing the gap for a moment.

The space between them is limited which lets her nose brush along his, “I figured you’d wise up and start cutting that with sugar!”

Illya can’t stop the chuckle that comes next. He leans in and his lips press over hers. It’s a short and sweet kiss that doesn’t last long. He pulls away much to her dismay, “Why would I need sugar when there is you, Chop Shop Girl?” His voice is surprisingly sweet with such a heavy accent. He moves a hand up and brushes her sleepy bangs out of her brown eyes and he soaks up the silence between them. The little box in his robe’s pocket is heavy. He should ask her now, before the mission takes place.

Gaby leans back from him onto her own stool, fingers slipping back over the paperwork for their next mission. They’re to be a couple again and Napoleon will join them on the plane to Athens. The instructions are clear and concise. They’re to infiltrate a group of smugglers running boats across the Mediterranean full of stolen goods. It’s nothing they can’t handle, at least that’s what Gaby says as she flips through a few more pages. The morning sunshine is filtering into their kitchen, casting a soft golden glow around her messy hair and he thinks, this is it. Setting his mug down, the Russian spy slides off his own stool. Even with her perched up on a stool, he’s still a good head taller than her and he decides to even the playing field, carefully bending to one knee. He kneels before her, staring up at the golden halo cast a round her from the morning light. His movement is caught in the edge of her vision and Gaby carefully looks down at him with a touch of confusion in her eyes. His hands are normally steady, but right now they’re fumbling – shaking. He manages to produce a small velvet box from his pocket and after a sharp inhale, opens it. Inside is a diamond. A real ring that isn’t bugged or fake. It’s not anything massive, small and simple cut. It was easily affordable and nothing flashy. It was something she could easily wear on missions without it getting in the way.

“Gaby–,” Illya’s voice is a soft whisper. Her name sits on his tongue for a moment before he clears his throat. She’s looking down at him now with a curious look, pretty little head tilted to the side. “Gaby, will you do me a great honor and become my fiance again.”

He doesn’t know if it’s his choice of words or the way he says them, but the reaction that comes from her wasn’t what he expected. She’s laughing. Her lips part in a sharp laugh, head tilted back and she’s shaking her head, “Is this what we’re going to do every mission now?” She manages to get the words out between her giggles and it confuses Illya. His sincerity had been real, his ring had been carefully selected and here she was, laughing at him. After a few more giggles, the woman slides off of her stool and bends down. Her lips ghost over his forehead as he keeps up his position on the floor, kneeling on tile – waiting for her to accept his proposal.

“Gaby,” Illya starts but she presses a calloused finger over his lips to silence him.

“I’m glad you’re picking up a sense of humor now, but you don’t have to do this every mission.” She moves her hand away from his lips and muses his already neatly combed hair. She ruffles the blond locks and steps away from him, stretching out those dancer’s legs and yawning. Her robe brushes the ground as she moves around the center counter and heads for the hallway, muttering something of a shower and packing to do before Greece. 

She leaves him there, kneeling with an unanswered question.


	5. AU - Coffee Shop

**Prompt: illya and gaby meet at a coffee shop :)**

 

The smell of coffee is the first thing that draws him into the small shop. It’s the smell and the warm draw of the building as he slips inside the small coffee house. Well the smell and the fact his mark is in there. Her picture is taped to the inside of a folder that’s wedged under his jacket, next to his gun. When he enters there’s no traditional sense to the establishment at all. Everything is oddly placed and full of eclectic crowd. There’s a mix of furniture along the walls, couches and small overstuffed chairs. There’s also a fireplace with plenty of books scattered throughout the whole establishment. Quirky little signs hang on almost every spot on the wall, advertising coffee and free books to swap out. The whole place is warm, it melts the snow off of his boots, inviting him to sit down at a table. Illya’s hands are like ice, even under the thick gloves which he takes off and drops them on to the small table. Next, he reaches up and pulls off the small hat, freeing his blond hair for the time being. He barely has a chance to drop his hat on the gloves when a white mug is sat down next to him. The mug is not all blank, it’s covered in little orange and green spots, making it whimsical even if it is impractical.

“I did not order–” His thick Russian accent permeates the warm air around them, but he trails off when he sees the woman next to the table. She’s wearing a small apron with so many colors on it, it’s practically distracting. In her small hand is a silver coffee pot and her dark hair is pulled back into a low ponytail with bangs brushing into brown eyes. His mouth instantly closes as he watches her smile and pour him a cup.

There’s a cat-like smile playing with her lips, “Should I leave room for cream? Sugar? Or are you the tall, dark, and bitter type?” When she smirks down at him, he knows she’s the woman in his assignment. She’s the escapee from the Wall, she’s the one who’s pretty little head will have one of his bullets in it. She’s a traitor to the country and should be put down as such, like all his training dictates.

“Cream.” Illya quickly says, because if he answers nothing at all then she may not come back to his table. He needs her to come back to his table. He has a method and that method means double and triple checking his target. This woman is important to his mission.

“Alright,” The waitress nods her dark head, brows moving up a bit as if waiting on him to say more but he doesn’t and she leaves him there. She lingers around the crowd for a bit, refilling a few mugs before disappearing behind a heavy cherry countertop that conceals all kinds of the latest kitchen technology for coffee shops. He watches until she vanishes into the back and then turns his blue gaze to the rest of the crowd. They’re all young couples and a few bookworms, snuggled into warm furniture. Illya looks from the edge of the table to the window he’s sitting next to, thankful that it’s cold enough outside to fog the window up. This gives him plenty of coverage to work out the details of his plan. His thoughts start to turn out the possible methods to completing his mission when there’s a small silver cup set next to him. It’s a chilled glass of fresh cream and there are tan fingers wrapped around it. He follows those fingers up a slender arm to the smirking face of his waitress.

“Cream costs you, you know.” She teases him with a playful tone, it makes him jump just a bit, reaching behind him for his wallet to pay whatever her asking price is. She moves her hand off of the cream cup just enough to touch his arm, “Oh no, not like that. I meant name. Do you have a name? Are you in town on business?”

He watches her carefully for a moment, blue eyes narrowing – vaguely wondering if this woman is on to him or if she’s just being friendly, “I have a name?”

“Oh do you?” She’s grinning a little wider to him and he thinks this is just friendly banter. Her foot moves out and she pulls the leg of the chair out with a simple push before settling down, “ Do I get to know what it is?” She asks sitting down and propping her head up on a fist.

Something about her smile is infectious. He finds himself starting to smirk at her own little one, but quickly calms the notion, “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” He compromises with a tilt of his head as he reaches for the cup of coffee completely ignoring the cream he ordered.

“Gaby,” She answers quickly and reaches out. She covers his hand with her own and there’s a sudden spark of electricity that races up his arm. He has no idea if she can feel it or not when her fingers trail over his and grab the little cool silver cup. She’s pouring a small bit of cream in his coffee for him, before letting go and reaching for a small spoon.

He stares at her awestruck while she concentrates on fixing up his cup of coffee, gently tapping the spoon on the edge of the mug before setting it down on to the table. She catches his gaze with a soft smile before pulling his mug up to her own lips. She takes a quick sip before making a face, “Oh, no that won’t do.” She murmurs over the lip of the cup.

Carefully her fingers slip away from his and she reaches behind her on to the neighboring table, snatching up a small white container with a spout.

“No– Sugar is not needed, Gaby.” He finds his words, stuttering for a moment on her name. 

“Trust me.” She winks at him, turning the little container over and spilling a small bit of sugar into the mug. Gaby’s fingers move for the spoon once more where she stirs for a few more seconds, takes a sip and then turns the mug towards his lips, “Here.”

Illya watches her for a moment, brow furrowing as he leans forward and takes a very small, tentative sip. It’s sweet. Very sweet but also some hint of bitter undertone. She smiles at him across the table and he finds himself smiling back at her. Like this is some sort of date, not a man finding a mark. After a moment or two, he pulls the mug away, his hand covering hers. Her hand is so small under his own and she lets her fingers ghost over his palm before she pulls away, pushing her chair back and standing.

“You never told me your name.” Gaby smiles to him as she reaches down into her apron for a few spare napkins, dropping them on to the table.

He knows he shouldn’t give her his name. It’s against every KGB regulation there is. It’s against everything he’s ever been taught and yet here he is, giving in to her because in a few hours she will be dead, “Illya.”

“Illya,” She repeats with a soft smile gracing her lips and he already loves the way his name sounds on her lips. After a moment or two she speaks again, bowing her little dark head towards him as she moves away with a small spring in her step, “Well Illya, this cup is on the house.”


	6. AU - Unhappy Ending

**Imagine Victoria killing Gaby before they left the cave and Illya arrives to find her dead body. This is depressing as hell but it could have been and I really want to cry. - TW: Major Character Death!!!**

 

When the gunshot goes off, his heart stops. His feet slip against wet rocks and he’s scrambling now towards that cave. Getting on the island undetected was their first primary goal but the sound of the gun going off has him pushing those goals aside. All Illya knows is Gaby is in there. Part of him prays his little Chop Shop Girl has found a way to pull the trigger, but the other part is reminding him that the world is cruel. Napoleon’s feet dig into the rocky beach as he starts pulling off his gear, reaching for his own gun. The two of them both racing for mouth of the cave. Illya’s longer legs get him there first, only he wishes he had been faster. The sight of her on the ground draws something primal from him. His shout echoes off the walls and his footsteps are much more hurried than his partners. Napoleon is stopped at the mouth of the cave, his hands limp, the gun slipping down his fingers as Illya manages to get to her first.

There’s no gasping breath from her. Just an ugly stain of red smeared over the dress he had so painstakingly picked out for her. The crimson color bleeds on to the front of his shirt when he pulls her up to his chest. Illya’s hands are trying to be everywhere at once. He presses his palm over her cheek, feeling for a warmth that is no longer there. The tips of his fingers ghost over her pale lips and then down her neck while his other hand pulls her closer into his chest, like he can shield her from the rest of the world. Illya’s lips form her name in a soft little whisper he hopes only she can hear him. Gaby’s hair is wet and matted to her forehead, she’s dirty and bloody – not to mention dead. There’s no beating in her chest, even when he pulls her up and presses his ear against her sternum, determined to hear something. There’s nothing and it makes his fingers twitch. It blurs his vision a bit and he can’t tell if it’s tears or anger. He decides it’s anger. Red bleeds into his vision as he wraps both arms around Gaby’s small form. She so easily fits against his chest, reminding him of all the things they could have been are now gone. She’s dead and Victoria is still on the loose.

Napoleon steps in a little closer. His boots slide a bit against the wet rocks, and his usual charming smile is gone. His blue eyes are starting to look a little red as he moves past Illya holding a dead Gaby. After a moment of silence, his hand moves down and cover’s Illya’s shoulder with an open palm. It’s a silent assurance that the mission needs to continue on.

“I can not leave her here.” Illya manages the words and he’s impressed with himself because they sound so strong. They sound strong even as his chest shakes for a moment, fingers tightening on the small woman like someone will take her away from him if he doesn’t hold on. Losing her was never an option on the mission. Of course, neither was caring for her, but here he was. A blundering mess clinging to a woman who probably never loved him in return.

“We will come back for her.” Napoleon is so sure, but his own voice wavers. Agents didn’t leave their partners behind. Gaby’s grave couldn’t be this terrible cave. She deserved so much more, she deserved a beautiful burial with more flowers than she could ever hope to count in her life. Illya’s hand moves back up to to her pretty face, where he holds her steady as his lips press over her forehead with one final kiss, knowing he’ll never get another chance.

“I will come back for you,” His lips form the words over her forehead as he gently pushes a lock of her hair away. It’s a promise and it’s all he can give her now, he was too late before, he’ll have to make it up to her somehow.

“We.” Napoleon corrects him, but it’s lacking his usual charming tone. It’s a promise they both make to the woman who kept them together. She kept them together and after the Vinciguerra woman dies, they will go home together.


	7. Illya/Gaby - Unrequited Crush

**Imagine: the 5 times Napoleon verbally noted how adorable Gaby is and the 5 times Illya denied how such awkward, rude and weird habits would ever be deemed as such (or, When illya discovers how frustrating it is to have an unrequited crush)**

 

“Damn, that was hot.” Napoleon’s mouth is twisted in a smirk as the glow from the fire illuminates his face. They’re in Mongolia and it’s cold but, they’ve managed to survive a week long mission in the knee height snow. Gaby pulls her head up from the rifle and gives him her own grin, proud that all her training is paying off. The rifle in her hands is heavy, and she smells like gunpowder but her shot is dead on and it fills her with a certain sense of pride that has her on a sense of cloud nine. At least she’s proud until Illya scoffs. His blue eyes roll up to the cloudless sky and he shrugs his shoulder.

“It was no big feature.” Illya’s accented words sound unimpressed by Gaby’s expert shot, hitting the gas tank on an old truck, “Children in Russia can make that hit.”

Napoleon shakes his head, shooting his partner a look as Gaby puffs up for a moment. Anger is evident on her face but she doesn’t yell at him yet. Instead she bites the inside of her cheek and holds all her words in. There’s no need for the mission to end violently if they can get out of it together, well and unscathed.

—

Their next mission as a trio takes them on a boring stakeout in the middle of the of dreary London weather. Their car is fogged up with condensation and their mark hasn’t left the luxury hotel in over six hours. By the time the seventh hour ticks on by, Gaby’s legs are asleep, stretched across the backseat in to Napoleon’s lap. Napoleon’s head is back against the seat and he’s snoring softly while Illya hasn’t moved in hours. Gaby wonders vaguely if he’s even human anymore, he hasn’t so much as twitched for their entire duration of the stakeout.

“We can’t sit here all night.” Gaby drawls out with a yawn as she stretches out her legs. The movement causes Napoleon to wake and he quickly wipes any sleep away from his face.

“She’s right, Peril.” Napoleon yawns himself as he stretches a bit, putting a hand on Gaby’s leg for a moment before pulling his hand away.

“We have no way of keeping him here. So we stay.” Illya answers with clipped words as usual. The ever stiff on every single mission. Napoleon glances over to Gaby who looks annoyed at the thought of spending another six or seven hours in a stuffy little car while rain batters the windows. Her tongue presses against the inside of her cheek for a moment as she contemplates bailing out of the car and hailing a cab to take her back to their hotel. Napoleon blows out a sigh of frustration and then Gaby’s up and moving.

“I have an idea.” She speaks with a determined toned, her lips pressing tightly together in a thin line as she crawls over Napoleon’s lap, Illya shooting him a glare in the rear view mirror as she does so. After finagling the door, she crawls out of the car in to the chilly rain. Her dress offers little protection from the rain and Illya reaches forward to wipe away fog from the window, blue eyes trained on his female comrade. She crosses the street with hurried steps and moves to the known car of their mark. After a few seconds, she manages to pop the hood and disappears inside of it for a moment. Illya can only see the edge of her bare leg lifting up in the air as she leans over the hood, the rest of her is gone. His gaze traces the long line of exposed flesh before she quickly comes back into view and slams the hood the car down. Gaby races her way back across the street and Napoleon has the door open for her to dive back inside quickly. She flops across the backseat, shaking out her dark hair like a dog would holding on to a piece of thin dark metal proudly in her hands.

“What in God’s name is that?” Napoleon asks as he ignores the wet spots Gaby is leaving on his clothes as she crawls back into her seat behind Illya.

Gaby holds up the piece of metal, triumphant grin on her face, “Distributor cap.”

Illya raises an eyebrow before Gaby continues on, “It means that car won’t go anywhere no matter how many times he tries to start it. The rest of the car is fine, but it won’t go start properly. See! Problem solved. Now, let me get out of these clothes and someone buy me a drink.”

“Brilliant work Gaby,” Napoleon claps his hands together for a moment, more excited over the idea of drinks and taking home a waitress than he is at the idea of sitting in the car for the rest of the evening. Illya’s eyes flick up to the rear view mirror where he sees Gaby practically beaming under wet bangs. His hands tighten over the steering wheel, watching her for a moment and before he can say anything nice, he scoffs again.

“Anyone could do that. Common sense.” Her smile falters in the reflection and he feels a pang of guilt ripple across his chest. He quickly pushes it away and moves to start the car once more.

—

His heart stutters for a moment when he looks at her. She’s in white and the dress is short it barely covers her thighs, with over sized sunglasses gracing her nose, lips pulled back with a sweet smile as Napoleon asks her to do a little turn. Gaby moves to the center of the hotel room, her hair is loose around her shoulders and when she does a little turn in the dress, the bottom skirts twirl up a bit. Illya’s throat constricts and he wonders if this is all some sort of tortuous dream.

“Stunning,” Napoleon’s voice breaks the spell Illya is under. His blue eyes quickly cut away from the beautiful woman to his partner who is somewhat matching her. Napoleon looks suave in a matching white and light blue suit. They’re to be a couple on this mission at a grand polo match with one of the richest power couples this side of Spain. Illya is to be their ‘help’. Unlike in Rome where he was the man to marry Gaby.

Jealousy cuts through him like a sharp knife when Napoleon reaches out, taking Gaby’s hand and twirls her once more, making her step into him like they’re dancing. Gaby’s little laugh is musical and he feels the surge of irrational anger as she looks to him, “And what about you fashion expert?”

“You look –,” Illya has a thousand or so words he wants to say to describe the angelic woman before him. Only when Solo mutters something about her being ‘exquisite’, Illya settles on a wave of his hand, “Decent.”

“Ignore him, Russian’s have bad manners.” Solo shoots Illya a glare as Gaby’s smile falters. She looks upset at his words to her and while he wants to correct the statement and take his hand in hers for a third twirl, he excuses himself from the room, eyes trained dead ahead so he doesn’t have to look at the sad doe eyes she’s making at him. He is already ready for this mission to be over with.

—

They’re celebrating this time. There’s enough alcohol to easily knock out a small crowd going between them. Uncle is so successful that they’re given the next day off before they have to travel again. So Solo and Teller are celebrating. They pass a bottle of champagne back and forth to finish off their night. Gaby taking the bottle from him and pressing it to her lips. The alcohol has been split two ways instead three. Illya refuses to drink. He’s still in his straight-laced agent ways. Unmoving from his place on the couch within the hotel room, chessboard in front of him – attempting to concentrate. It’s hard when Gaby turns the radio up louder and Solo shouts something of a toast. The noise makes a vein in his forehead twitch, his fingers ghost along the tops of the chess pieces and he’s hesitating before making a move.

His game of strategy though is pretty much ruined as Gaby hits the edge of the chessboard with her knee. It’s an accident but it irritates him, even with her glassy eyes and red lips pouting in his direction, “Oh, Illya.” She frowns for a moment at her spill, trying to reach down and fix the pieces. Her fingers are shaking and when she picks up his queen piece he can see the silly engagement ring is still on her hand from their first mission together.

“Gaby.” Illya starts moving his hand out. He wraps his fingers around her wrist for a moment and moves her hand away, looking up at her at her standing form. Even sitting he’s close to being too tall for her. Her nose is centimeters from his own, cheeks red – she looks beautifully disheveled in that white dress, full of alcohol.

Gaby’s fingers release the queen and she leans into him. He searches her face for a moment, watching as she lowers her eyes leaning in, he can smell the alcohol on her breath. He wonders vaguely if she’ll taste the same but before he gets the chance, Solo backs into the room with an odd dance move, singing along to the radio as he holds out the bottle of bubbly towards Gaby. She springs back from her Russian comrade to take the bottle from Solo. In one quick swoop, she has the bottle to her lips and drains the contents.

Napoleon starts a slow clapping motion, “Now that is a woman after my own heart.”

Illya scowls and knocks his own king piece down before excusing himself from the room.

—

She’s standing on Solo’s shoulders when she shouts down, that she can’t quite reach the railing. Napoleon’s dark head turns towards Illya’s own and he raises an eyebrow in his direction, “No.” Illya is firm, shaking his blond head, “I am not step stool for small mechanic.”

“Illya!” Gaby hisses out his name, irritated with him as she moves her weight around on Solo’s shoulders. Napoleon is gritting his teeth, hands on Gaby’s ankles trying to keep her steady. She’s a wobbly mess up there, but her fingers are still too short to reach the railing to pull herself up to safety. They’re running out of time and any minute now the alarm is going to sound, alerting all of the Parisian police of their whereabouts.

“No!” Illya whispers right back up at her but she doesn’t listen. In a matter of seconds she picks one foot up and sets it on Illya’s shoulder. He’s half tempted to move out of her way, but that would cause her to fall and he’s not interested in injuring her. He just wants her out of harm’s way. He sets his jaw as she moves her second foot over, then steps on his head. He scowls, biting his tongue not calling her rude things in his native language. Her balance is unsteady and before Solo can reach over, Illya moves his hands up. He wraps his palms gently around her ankles and steadies her, pushing up just enough to give her a boost. Her legs wobble once more as his thumb strokes downwards over the smooth skin. It wasn’t an intentional move, but he had done it and it caused chill bumps to move up along her skin. Gaby’s movements froze and she swallowed hard, concentrating hard on her task at hand.

Illya lifted her a bit further and she managed to wrap both hands around the slender railing of the fire escape. With a final heave, she pulled herself up and over the railing, scrambling to safety. Once she was fully out of sight, Napoleon let out a low whistle.

“I’m not sure how you stay so calm around her Peril,” He smoothed a hand over his jaw where Gaby had kicked him in the face, “That girl is a hurricane.”

The feeling of her warm skin was still there, even though she wasn’t. Illya’s gaze was still up on the railing, making sure she was gone for good, a twinge in his chest of worry – if he couldn’t see her, he couldn’t protect her. Then again, Gaby never needed constant protection, but he felt the need to be there. Of course when Solo’s uncalled for words hit him, he turned his gaze into a glare and shot it right at his partner. This was a conversation they didn’t need now, or ever really. It was a can of worms that Illya was not willing to open and it afterall it was none of Solo’s business how he felt about the infuriating little mechanic who had somehow wormed her way into his heart.

“Get moving Cowboy,” He huffed while moving both hands out and giving Napoleon a quick shove.


	8. Illya/Gaby - Queen's Piece

**Prompt: Illya teaches Gaby how to play chess and there's fluff when he talks about the importance of the queen, maybe? (this blog is so wonderful, btw)**

 

Gaby takes another long drink and scoots a little closer to Illya. Her leg collides with his for a moment as she reaches over his arm and touches one of the little ivory carved pieces on the chessboard. Illya’s hand spasmed for a moment, fingers spanning out for a moment before he quickly closed them back up into a well uniformed fist. He doesn’t react right away to Gaby as her fingers dance over the top of the pieces and she pushes one of them into a dark square on the black and white board.

She’s made a terrible move and probably doesn’t even know it.

After a few days on assignment, stuck in the small hotel room she ran out of radio stations to change to and finally took a spot next to him on the couch. There was a pitiful pout on her lips as she asked him to teach her to play chess only it’s turned into more of a headache than an actual lesson. Gaby never moves the piece where he tells her, she also doesn’t seem to understand their roles as she constantly moves them incorrectly. It’s been over an hour now and he has already defeated her twice, both times were embarrassingly quick for her. That’s when Gaby raided the liquor cabinet.

Only this time she’s moved her queen and Illya can’t stop the ‘tsk’ that leaves his lips while she takes another long drink. The smell of vodka is strong, but she’s stronger than any alcohol with a sharp sigh that leaves her. Either she is very bored or very drunk, which one he can’t quite decide on. Even when he gives her another ‘tsk’ at her move.

“What?” She cuts her brown gaze up to his, lips poised to snap back.

Illya meets her determined little look with both of his brows raising, pointing his index finger towards the piece she moved, “Queen.”

“So?” Gaby asks as she holds her glass up for a moment, swirling it so the ice clinks together.

“So, Chop Shop.” He doesn’t give into her little glare. Instead picks up her queen and holds it up, close to her nose. She goes cross eyed for a moment before backing her head up a bit, and then stares at the little piece in his hand, “Your Queen is important. Queen most important on board.”

He gestures to the board with an open palm. His lips are slightly curved up, amused that he has something new to teach her, even as she squirms to the edge of her seat, setting down the vodka glass.

“But you said the King wins the game.”

“Well yes. Only Queen is most important.” He twists the little piece in his hand for a moment before he sets her down on the middle of the board, his voice lowering a bit as he holds the piece carefully along the carved sides. Illya moves the piece back and forth and then side to side, “Queen is most important piece on whole board. She makes the mission for your pieces. She can go left, right, back and forth. She can also do this,” Illya’s words pause as he drags the Queen into a diagonal run along the dark squares.

Gaby’s leaning a little closer to him and the board. Her lips are parted and she has one of her eyebrows raised, “How is she more important than the King then? Hm?” She turns her head up and immediately they are too close. Solo could walk in at any moment. The phone could ring or the room service could arrive and draw them apart. This is the closest they’ve been since Rome.

Illya’s nose is close to her own as he turns towards her and in a moment everything between them is silent. Her brown eyes are lowered and fixed to the corners of his mouth where he’s trying not to smile. At this distance he can smell the vodka on her lips and almost wants a taste of it. He finds himself thinking ridiculous things now, things the KGB beat out of him at such a young age. Only he wants them with Gaby, he wants to lean in and press his mouth along hers just like he wanted to back in Rome. Instead he swallows down on all those thoughts and answers her with a soft whisper, “The Queen can do anything.”

Her tongue darts over her bottom lip and he decides to push the rest of their lesson aside. Illya leans in for a kiss when the hotel door swings open and in comes a soaking wet Napoleon. His dark hair is stuck in every which direction and his shoes are squeaking against the plush carpet as he takes off his expensive dinner jacket.

Illya swears and Gaby gets off of the couch, snatching her glass up again. 

“Oh my,” Napoleon sighs as he throws the expensive jacket over his arm and starts undoing his cuff links, “Interrupting again am I?”


	9. AU - Royals

**Imagine Illya and Gaby as royals from different countries. Illya attempts to flirt with Gaby who was posing as a kitchen maid(to sneak out of the palace), and she completely rebuffs him. Illya finds her reaction amusing and tries to stop her from leaving the palace, he fails. Later on, during the ball royalties from all over the world was invited to, Illya was surprised to find Gaby as the daughter of his host, a princess. He asks her for a dance.**

 

The only reason he’s dressed in his best is because his father demanded it so. The vest around his crisp shirt was a little too tight and his black jacket was loosely draped over his arm as he slipped away from the social gathering that was taking place in the over-luxurious Teller Castle. He rather snoop around the open kitchen than deal with the chatter of the high and mighty of the lands. The kitchen is open but bustling. There are servants everywhere, all dressed in white and dark blues, women shouting out orders left and right for their ingredients. 

Smaller servant girls no older than ten or eleven ran past him with their arms full of potatoes and greens from the royal gardens no doubt, dirt smudging their noses as they giggled up past him. Illya put on a charming smile for them as he reached over one table and stole a bright red apple from a tray, rubbing the fruit on his sleeve while his blue eyes flicked across the kitchen. He was ready to take a bite when he spotted her. The woman with her hair pinned back behind a white covering and a dress that looked too big on her frame. She had tan skin and a sharp collarbone exposed, making him pause his actions. He watched her carefully moving around the kitchen. She had no food in her arms, no dress garments on for serving. Instead she was moving with a careful step across the room, heading in the direction of the back door.

The young prince grinned against the apple skin, taking it away from his mouth as he decides then and there to have a little fun with the woman. With a few short strides, he makes his way towards the door and before the woman can make it, he blocks her exit with a quick arm.

“Are you aware there is a ball tonight?” He asks with a charming smile, the same one his father thought him while growing up in a country full of constant negotiations. Illya watches as she stops, a flash of anger over her lips as they tighten in a thin line before glancing up at him. The white cloth covering her hair is pulled low, but she pushes it back enough revealing a sharp face and brown eyes that narrow at him blocking her escape.

“I’m very aware of such things, I would much rather not attend.” Her words are short and clipped, fingers curling into uniformed fists at her middle as she glances from his arm and up to his face and then back to the door. He is blocking her escape route and ruining everything.

“Not attend a Royal Ball?” Illya’s brows furrow as he moves himself slowly in front of the door, completely blocking it. He’s intrigued now with this woman. She doesn’t look like any part of the kitchen staff, but that doesn’t mean she’s not a commoner. Most commoners swooned when he spoke, they giggled and curtsied. This woman did nothing of the sort. Instead she was glaring at him, eyes full of fire.

“Oh good, you can hear me. For a moment I thought your head was too high up to catch the words of a commoner.” She folds her arms under her chest taking a half-step back as she looked past him to the door and then behind her like she was worried someone would catch her speaking with him.

“I can and I am stumped really. I do not know of any woman turning down a chance for a ball. What if I offered you a dance?” He shot her another smile, a lazy charming one that usually won the hearts of the easily swayed even if he was lying. A man like himself could never dance with the staff at a royal ball. It would be not only scandalous but ridiculous even for himself. Illya could push boundaries with stolen kisses and short lived romances but never a public one. His father would disown him and his future land with the fortune would be gone.

“You are nothing special,” The maid spoke to him and he felt his own anger flare up for a moment. He had never been insulted by the help before. Only before he could reply to the woman she kept on, even taking a step closer to him. She only came up to his chest but there was something quite frightening about her, “So no, I will not dance with you, I will not swoon over you or take any chances with your spoiled self.”

Her last words come out clipped and her teeth are bared for a moment and it takes him by surprise. Her words sting and in her frustration some of her hair has come loose. She had insulted him, but somehow he wasn’t lingering on that. He was too busy watching the way her lips moved when she spoke and how long her dark lashes were as she closed her eyes in frustration. Illya’s hand moved up, fingers hesitating to reach out and touch a piece of dark hair that had come out from under her hat. Only he didn’t get a chance. A rather large woman was moving towards him with her mouth open in a loud shout, shooing him out with a wave of her hand.

“No guests back here! Back to your party. My kitchen is not a playground!” She was sharp with her words, red hair spilling out from her bun. The woman in front of him quickly gasped and instead of pushing past him out the door, she escaped to his left, heading up a set of stairs that probably lead to another part of the castle, failing to give her name as she escaped. He put both hands up, the apple still in one of his hands as he shot the head-kitchen maid a charming smile.

“My mistake my lady, I will leave. Thank you.” He was polite for a guest, and excused himself from the bustling kitchen, mind still on the woman who wouldn’t give him the time of day as he made his way up the steps back towards the main hall. The whole castle was full of marble floors, they were crystal clear and shiny. Elaborately carved walls closed in around him as he made his way past candelabras, heading back the way he had come towards the sound of soft violin music as the other royal parties arrived. Announcements were made for each guest, all the Lords and Lady’s were introduced as they entered. There was gossip chattering across the crowds, everyone applauding as the royal band struck up another chord. The music bounced off the tall ceiling, candles everywhere lighting up the entire ballroom. Castle Teller was beautiful and old. It was well taken care of with old money and the constant source of entertainment in the lands. After a few more introductions, the royal band started once more with the country’s anthem before a man in black and white stood on a set of steps to announce the hosts of the royal ball. Illya took a few steps forward, hand stretching out to drop the apple on a waiter’s silver tray, just to pick up a thin stemmed glass of golden liquid.

The man in his black and white suit shouted out the names of the King and Queen while the whole ball erupted into applause. The king wearing a sharp suit of black and gold, while the Queen stunned in her golden dress. They were a family of a lot of money, much like his own only they were truly rich in every sense of the word. The applause died down as the servant man cleared his throat, “And announcing her Royal Highness Princess Gabriella.”

After the announcement there was no woman. No one came from the archway the King and Queen had come from and Illya grinned, lifting his champagne glass to his lips before the servant man called once more, “Announcing, her Royal Highness Princess Gabriella.” 

He loved it when things went unplanned at these events. It would give so much more fuel to his father’s fire as he attempted to secure more and more land under the royal guard.

Illya swallowed another bit of alcohol, blue eyes cutting across the room to a familiar woman in blue with her long blond hair swept up into an elaborate braid and bun, before applause erupted across the room. Illya glanced back towards the King and Queen as they joined in the applause, clapping as their daughter finally joined them, her dark hair pinned up exposing a tan collarbone and a red dress that looked much better than any maid uniform.

He almost dropped his glass. The woman from the kitchen was standing at the top of the steps now, standing in front of her mother and father who were being seated at their respectful thrones. Gabriella took a few steps down on to the red carpet that spanned across the marble staircase. She looked nervous and scared as she reached a hand out for the railing. Her gloved hands slipped over the railing and Illya could see her anxious fingers clinging for dear life as she cleared her throat.

“Thank you for joining us on this night,” The princess spoke, her voice wavering a bit as she did so, “I would like you all to enjoy the ball as the King and Queen celebrate their silver anniversary.”

She reluctantly lets go of the railing and clapped. Illya wiped the surprise look off of his face as he took in those dark eyes and long lashes, the fierce look in her eyes gone as he moved his hands up to clap. The rest of the room followed suit and the applause died down as the royal band struck up it’s strings. A soft melody came over the room and several royals extended their hands out as the dancing begun. Illya’s eyes though were still on the Princess. The one who looked nervous and out of place, she looked annoyed with being at a ball. It dawned on him there as he took a few steps forward, he had blocked her exit. She had been trying to escape when he foiled her plans while she had been in disguise.

Slipping past a few fellow men, he made his way towards the Princess. Her back was to him, but it didn’t stop Illya from speaking to her.

“I must admit, this dress is much more fetching than your previous one, your Royal Highness.” Illya spoke up a bit, once more giving a charming smile even if she had technically deceived him with her servant clothes and even insulted him by calling him spoiled.

The woman in red flushed as she turned towards him, cringing for a moment as she bit into her painted bottom lip, “You do not have to call me that.”

“Oh, but I must your Royal Highness.” Illya struck a nerve, “My spoiled upbringing deems it so.”

He’s teasing her as she flushes once more, that familiar fire sparking back in her brown eyes. Her white gloves smooth over the tight lacing of her red ball gown and she looks uncomfortable in her own skin around so many royals from all over the lands. Before she opens her mouth though, Illya steps forward, standing a little straighter.

He’s much taller than her, almost intimidating as he moves a hand towards her. “How about for an apology you dance with me your highness?”

“Excuse me?” Her brows move up at her own shock as she tilts her head back, glancing from his handsome face to his outstretched hand. The music sounding off of the walls is in the tempo of one of her favorite songs and while she despises balls, she does owe him an apology for the insults thrown at him within the kitchen.

“A dance, please.”

After a moment or two, Gabriella reaches up and takes his hand. Her smaller fingers fold over his palm and he lifts their hands delicately before guiding them towards the center of the marble floor. In two beats they come together and then apart in a traditional dance, his hand settles along the edge of her waist and she keeps one open palm on his shoulder, “This isn’t so bad is it?”

Illya asks with his blond head turned down to her own, his blue gaze lingering on the woman who refuses to make eye contact with him. She’s glancing along the edge of the ballroom. Looking towards her parents who are practically beaming that she is on the dance floor. Usually she is never to be found at these events, she always manages to escape but tonight, tonight he stopped her.

“No,” She whispers softly, turning her head back towards him as he takes the moment to twirl her. Her red dress floats up a bit as she does so and she comes back to him in one smooth motion. His hand closes back over her waist and she’s watching him now, head tilted back, “This is not bad at all.”

“Better than escaping out the back door?” Illya asks as she comes back into his hold.

“Not quite.” She muses just to see his charming smile falter a bit. He’s not used to being taunted and she can tell by the childish faces he makes when she does so. Just like he had done in the kitchen when she called him spoiled.

“What if I promise another dance?” He asks in a commanding tone.

“What if you don’t?” The Princess is unwavering in her own skin, no longer plagued with the anxiety she had before as she moves step by step with him. The rest of the room has somehow vanished. She can only see him and wonders vaguely if he can only see her, after all his eyes have yet to stray. The two have danced for too long without breaking contact.

“What do you not like about me?” Illya asks boldly as he turns with her, cutting of view of her parents on their throne.

Gabriella’s hand tightens on his own and her fingers dig into his thick jacket, “Why not name all the things I do like about you, that list is much shorter.”

He laughs shaking his head, “You are more trouble than you may be worth.”

“I’m worth quite a lot actually,” She toys with those words and he nods his head towards her.

“That may be, but I will make things even on us. I should apologize for blocking your exit. Only I will not.” This draws a sharp huff from the woman in his arms.

“Why not?”

“Because I am most certainly unapologetic for this dance, your highness.”

The music picks up once more and Illya pushes her outwards once more in a twirl and she laughs as he pulls her back in, both hands moving to her waist to pick her up gently and when her feet leave the ground she laughs once more.It’s the first time she hasn’t been angry with him. His words are amusing to her, but they are the truth. He wants to dance with her for the rest of the evening, everyone else is gone in his mind. He turns and sets her down like all the other gentlemen have done with their ladies and then bows low as the music settles down.

“Your highness,” He smiles softly to her in his bow and she very softly lowers her head towards him. They keep their gazes locked, unmoving even as people filter around them.

“Your grace.” She answers in a soft whisper, “If you wish, there’s a better exit on the west wing.”

“I wish.” He answers and the two separate among the crowd, vanishing in the sea of royals and blue bloods.


	10. Illya/Gaby - His Favorite Sound

**Imagine if Gaby was deaf and Illya had to deal with the people making fun of her "weird voice" (music yo his ears). - Slight AU: Character Disability**

Her hearing aids aren’t working right, picking up a static that makes her wince as she reaches up to press on them again. Her brows knit together and she stoops for a moment, adjusting her hair over her her ears once more. She hides them more than anything else in her life. Gaby’s fingers slide away from her hair and move back to Illya’s elbow as they make their way through the thick crowd of people who are shuffling around the square in the middle of their latest assignment with U.N.C.L.E. They’re following orders, waiting on Solo to meet them at the fountain in the center of Madrid, pretending to be newlyweds this time.

Illya’s hand moves out for a moment and his fingers curl up, palm raising as he does so. Gaby catches his movements, glancing up at him through her fluffy bangs. He carefully moves his fingers in slow deliberate signs, he’s trying to learn more for her. Teaming up with Gaby had caught him off guard back in Rome but now he’s managing communication much better. She watches his fingers and a tiny smile quirks at the corner of her lips, “I’m fine, but you sign terrible.”

She speaks to him, voice off-key and a bit slow. His lips twitch a bit at her light teasing, watching her reach up and push her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose. The sun is beating down on both of them as they make their way through the square. Tourists are everywhere and at the center of the rustic city is a fountain. It’s the meeting point for this mission, where they’ll trade information with Solo and go back to their new safe house. Illya guides her towards the fountain, hand grasping onto hers for a moment. His thumb caresses the fake engagement ring on her hand before he lets her take the first seat on the edge of the fountain.

“I do not sign terrible,” He gives her one of his rare smiles trying to sign the words as he says them. Illya has never short-cutted anything in his life and learning to communicate with the little mechanic from Germany is a top priority. She shakes her head and reaches up with both of her hands, grabbing on to his own. He freezes for a moment, unsure of the sudden contact, but she’s rearranging his fingers carefully. Her small hands move his fingers carefully, forming the correct words.

“Better.” She says, lips turning up into a bright smile as she lets her fingers slip away from his. Illya’s gaze slides down to his fingers that she’s fixed for him and then to her smile. She smooths her fingers along her bottom of her expensive dress, pushing it back down her tan legs as Gaby turns her head up towards him.

Illya tilts his blond head to the side as he takes a seat next to her. Even sitting he’s still towering over her and he doesn’t dare undo his fingers. “Am I really better?”

 

“You are much better now.” She’s grinning at him as his hands fall into his lap and he shakes his blond head towards her, wanting to tell her how she makes him much better. Only he doesn’t get the chance to do so, because an eruption of laughter not far from them interrupts the moment. Illya tears his gaze away from Gaby to the source of the laughter and it’s a group of young teenagers. They’re not far from where he and Gaby are perched on the edge of the fountain.

Normally this wouldn’t warrant any of their attention, but they’re pointing at Gaby. Then they do the unthinkable, mimic her voice, exaggerating her slower speech. Gaby instantly freezes next to him. Her fingers twitch and dig into the hem of her skirt, frowning a bit. Turning her head down she looks away from them, reaching up and trying to push her hair down over her ears. Illya watches as her cheeks go crimson and she sputters for a moment, “I-Ignore them.”

Her fingers move up to sign the words but they’re shaking. Anger floods him. His own hand starts to twitch, a pattern he has picked up as he watches the group of teenagers. They’re mocking the small woman next to him, they have no idea she’s an agent or that he is KGB. They are just being cruel, looking for something to laugh over. They have no respect for anyone around them. They’re loud and rude and need, a little respect. Respect is something he can easily teach them with a quick twist of his hand on their arms, he could snap their small bones like twigs. The more he thinks about it, the more he wants to do it. Illya’s jaw clenches and he makes a move to stand when Gaby grabs on to his hands. It’s like Rome all over again. Her fingers close around his wrists, over his father’s watch and she shakes her dark head up to his.

“S-..” She forms the word, stuttering a bit with a deep flush of crimson crawling up her neck, “Stop, please i-ignore them.”

“Why should I?” He shouts his question, making her wince but it definitely catches the attention of the teenagers. She blushes a bit darker, biting into her bottom lip. Gaby is used to this. Her hearing aids catch attention everywhere she goes, people talk about her like she’s not there. She’s used to filtering it out and ignoring them all. People are cruel but she can be better without them. Her fingers stroke down over his father’s watch and Illya lets his gaze flick from hers to the teenagers once more. Illya’s lips are pulled back into a partial snarl and he feels the warmth of her hands sinking into his own, “I should ignore them why?”

Gaby’s fingers slip away from his own and she quickly signs up to him. Her fingers move so fast he can barely catch what she’s trying to tell him. He misses most of her words and settles for breaking her concentration. He moves his hands over hers, fingers sliding up along her flushed cheeks. The rest of the world around them goes silent as he leans into her, “Why should I let them ruin my favorite sound?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead his hands move into her hair, brushing past her hearing aids and then he’s kissing her. It’s not how he wanted their first kiss to go and it ends too quickly with the sound of their American comrade clearing his throat. Gaby breaks away first and it’s Illya’s turn to blush as the rest of the world comes back to them. Napoleon reminds them they’re still on the job and Gaby signs that she’s ready for a drink with her new husband.


	11. Illya/Gaby - Stitches

**Imagine gaby having to stitch illya up after a mission gone wrong, trying to hide her fear after such a close call. TW: Blood / Character Injury**

 

When Solo brings him in, it’s not a pretty sight to take in. Illya can barely stand. His tall form is draped over Solo’s, all of his weight pressing in on him. His beautiful clothes are stained in red, his expensive suit sticking to him and there’s something silver sticking out of his side. Napoleon’s jaw is clenched as he carefully drags Kuryakin across the linoleum floor of the safe house, there’s a faint red trail in his wake as he manages to get their partner into the kitchen. The gasp that leaves Gaby is not unnoticed, but she’s quickly on her feet, vodka glass forgotten on the counter as she moves to clear the table. She’s shoving everything aside, sending the morning newspaper to the floor as her small hands move over to Illya.

Something in her throat tightens and she sucks in a sharp breath when he moans. His blue eyes are close and he’s breathing in short shallow breaths when Solo finally manages to get him on to the table. The old wood creaks under his weight, but it’s unnoticed as he flinches – hand stretching out for a moment to cover his side.

“Oh no you don’t.” Napoleon’s hands move over and he grabs onto Illya’s to stop him from touching the knife in his side.

“What happened!” Gaby shakes off the alcohol in her belly as she moves for the sink. In the drawer next to the sink there are a handful of rags, she takes them all. She pulls them all out, putting two in the sink as she starts the hot water. Gaby isn’t much of a nurse. She is a great mechanic with small hands for spark plugs and hot wiring expensive cars, but anything else is sort of a mess. Her fingers are shaking when she gets close to the table. She manages to get her hands down against the expensive fabric of his suit.

“Peril here got cornered while I was getting the safe open. Saved my life, but now look who’s saving who.” Napoleon’s usual cool-calm self is a little shaken. Gaby can hear it in his voice, the way it wavers while he’s pulling off the edge of Illya’s jacket while Gaby starts soaking up the small pool of red on his sweater. Together the two of him manage to lift their Russian partner up enough to pull his jacket off, Gaby’s hand carefully lingers on the back of his golden head, before setting it gently back against the table. Illya’s eyes are still closed but he’s gritting his teeth, well conscious enough to make another sigh of annoyance.

“I’m going to need medicine.” Gaby whispers over him as her hand smooths up over Illya’s hair, across his forehead. He’s burning up and she doesn’t really know what to do, it wasn’t like her mother was the prime figure in her life. Her teeth worry back and forth over her bottom lip as she flexes her fingers out towards the knife protruding from Illya’s side, “Real medicine.”

She cuts her gaze to Napoleon who nods at her, “I’ll hit the market down the road and double back to make sure no one follows.” He speaks with quick certainty, knowing they need to keep their safe house actually safe. Napoleon leaves her with one last look at their partner before he’s gone. The kitchen door swings shut as Gaby takes another look down at Illya. He’s twitching a bit more and moving a hand over to his side. She instantly moves her own hand down to stop his touch.

“Whoa, no.” She breathes, “Don’t touch that. I know we can’t pull that out yet. I need the first aid kit.” Her words are gentle as she smooths her hand back over his hand patting it down before she pushes one of the chairs away from the kitchen table. She pushes the chair against the counter and steps up onto it in order to reach the top cabinet. Inside there’s a white case with a red cross across the top of it. Tugging it out, Gaby hops down from the chair and sets the box on the edge of the counter, opening it up.

The box is filled with everything she needs, including a surgical needle and medical thread. The safe house is well stocked thanks to U.N.C.L.E. and Gaby wonders vaguely if they stocked the medical kits for reasons like this, when hospitals were out of the question. They couldn’t exactly drag a six foot plus Russian man into a hospital with a distinctive knife wound. It would blow all their covers and put them all in danger. Gaby starts pulling out all the supplies she’ll need as she moves her way to the table once more. She has had limited medical training, mostly a rushed lesson here and there on how to make a tourniquet and where to put the needle in the case of anaphylactic shock. Nothing has quite prepared her for this. Her fingers are shaking but she rather be the one stitching him up than Solo. Solo is messy and untrained, he’s fingers are good for lifting jewels, not repairing flesh and bone. Of course Gaby thinks her own can’t be much better. She’s good at repairing engines and transmissions. Her fingers are calloused and rough, built for rewiring cars not people. Her lips press tightly together as she lets her fingers ghost over Illya’s side. He flinches against her touches, but his eyes are closing. If she doesn’t do something soon, he may not reopen those beautiful blues. Gaby decides she can’t wait on Solo any long. Reaching behind her Gaby grabs her abandoned tumbler of vodka and fishes out the ice, tossing it behind her and into the sink while she moves Illy’s shirt up a bit. He sucks in a sharp breath and she pours the cold alcohol over the wound. Illya groans and it breaks her heart, because his usual strong facade is broken. His teeth are clenched together, grinding and there’s a soft whine leaving the back of his throat. He is in pain and by the time Solo comes back in, he’s having to hold Illya down.

Napoleon has managed to buy out half of the pharmacy for over the counter pain medications, nothing strong enough to take effect immediately but they manage to make Illya swallow down a few pain pills with a swish of vodka before starting. Napoleon has to hold on to the Russian’s shoulders as Gaby cuts around the ruined fabric of his dress shirt. She lets the bloody piece of fabric fall to the floor while glancing up at Solo, fingers poised on the knife.

“When you pull that out, you have to be fast.” Napoleon reminds her and Gaby can feel the pinpricks of sweat beading up along the back of her neck as she nods. Illya lets out another groan and Gaby wraps her fingers around the weapon, yanking it free from his flesh. The wound wells up with a bright new batch of blood, it spills over his side before Gaby can press a cloth over it. She wipes as much of it away as she can before she starts her procedure. Her stitches are messy and uneven. He will most likely scar but she’s managed to staunch the bleeding. It’ll be another scar for him to add to his collection, but Gaby doesn’t care. She’s just happy his breathing has evened out. The pain medicine is kicking in, easing his discomfort as his blue eyes flutter open. Napoleon lets go of his shoulders and backs away from the table as he claims it’s his turn for a drink. Gaby’s hands are stained red. Illya’s blood sticks to her fingers as he reaches up to catch her hand. The blood makes her fingers feel tacky but she ignores the urge to pull away as his thumb traces small circles over the tops of her knuckles.

The words that leave him are almost silent but Gaby catches them anyways, “Thank you.”

Her breath hitches somewhere in her throat as she feels the rush of emotions overtaking her. Her hand instantly clamps around his and she chokes back a sob, “You could have died. You could have died, why did you do that?”

Illya blinks a few times as he sniffs, trying to get a better grip on his voice. He doesn’t dare move or even pull his hand back. Gaby’s grip on him is tight and painful, but it’s a pain he’s willing to take, “Could not blow mission, Chop Shop.”

He pulls the slightest bit on her hand and Gaby moves forward, her forehead finds his and she lets out all the fear she had been holding in, pressing a final kiss against the scar on his temple.


	12. Illya/Gaby -  Settled Down

**Illya and Gaby have settled down and he takes their daughter to Ballet Class :)**

Her hand is so little in his own that she can only hold two fingers as she walks alongside of him. Illya keeps a firm grip on her though as they cross the street together, his coat blowing against his knees as the cool weather settles in for the season. The little brunette next to him is bundled up as well, only her pink ribbon in her hair is flying about, it matches her pink shoes.

“We need to hurry up or we will be late.” The little voice next to him chimes knowingly, tugging on his hand to hurry him along. She is ever impatient just like her mother, Illya only smiles to her words. His anger is easily gone with the small angel at his side.

“We will not be late.” He informs her, glancing down letting his blue eyes meet her own as she grins up at him, two teeth missing in that crooked smile of hers. She looks almost like a carbon copy of his wife, except a pair of shocking blue eyes.

She informs him with the usual tone, “Mama said we can not be late.”

“Your mother is very smart, we will not be late Natalya.” Illya assures her as they step up towards another set of buildings, weaving between the people crowding the sidewalk. He’s very careful and alert with the little one at his side. He never lets her hand go, never lets her out of his sight. Though the afternoon traffic is picking up and the sidewalk is getting busier. When the crowd gets too thick, he leans down and scoops her up. She weighs practically nothing at seven years old and easily clings to his neck, holding onto him tightly. Her little tutu is tickling his arm but Illya ignores it as they wait at the next crosswalk for the chance to cross the street.

“Papa?”

Her little voice tickles his neck as she buries herself in from the wind, clinging to him like he’s all she has in the world, “What is it?”

“Did Mama really do ballet too?” Her question catches him off guard and he almost misses his chance to cross the street. Illya quickly moves with the crowd, heading for the dance studio at the end of the block with other parents walking their future ballerinas inside. Illya can’t help but smile at her question though, she’s asked it a hundred times waiting on a new answer. He smiles a bit wider and turns his head over, pressing a kiss into her temple.

“Best ballerina in all of Germany.” He assures her even though they’re no longer in Germany, Natalya has no idea her parents are ex-spies, ex-special agents and informants. She has no idea they’re anything more than a mechanic and investment banker. Of course the two have long since retired their roles within U.N.C.L.E. they don’t reveal their past to their daughter. Not yet at least. At seven she still sees the world as something clean and crisp, pure and innocent. They don’t want to take that from her.

“And that’s how you met Mama right?” She sounds so hopeful, lips splitting into yet another smile.

Illya can only think of Gaby dancing in the hotel room on their very first mission. Her little drunken sways and then the wrestling, “Yes. I met her while she danced.”

His daughter lets out one of those little sighs as she sinks into his broad shoulder, “Was she the best on the stage?”

He’s reminded of Rome. Of her standing on the table, dress hiked up with her trembling legs. Instead of spilling the truth, he weaves the intricate story he knows his daughter will love. He tells her how his little Chop Shop Girl was the best on the stage, so great she stood out from all the rest of the dancers in pink. She was beautiful and elegant and everything Natalya could and would be one day, “She was the most beautiful one on that stage. Just like you.” He informs her, pressing another kiss to her cheek, a rather loud one that makes her break into giggles.

“Papa stop!” Natalya’s fingers are pressing over his cheek, pushing away from her but he kisses her hand loudly and adjusts her in his hold as they make their way up the steps to the dance academy. It’s the best one in the country and she’s already wiggling to get out of his grasp, eager to go to class.

“I will stop when you give me kiss.” He turns his cheek for her and for a moment nothing happens. Then after threatening to put her down, Natalya leans in and kisses his cheek just as loud as he had done to her. Illya smiles and sets her feet back down onto the steps. They’re halfway up but at the top of the stairwell is the dance teacher and standing next to the teacher is his wife, waiting on him.

“I told you we were going to be late.” Natalya shakes her head as she lets go of Illya’s hand and runs up the last few steps. He’s almost reluctant to let her go, watching her ribbon waving to him as she moves her way to Gaby. Natalya makes it to the top but not before slinging her arms around her mother’s legs and hugging her for a brief moment before Gaby kneels to fix her bun. Illya watches the two women in his life, a faint smile on his lips as he makes his way up the rest of the steps. Gaby’s tying on her ballet slippers now, sending a pointed look up to Illya as the rest of the little ballerinas begin to arrive and line up for class.

“You’re late.” Gaby informs him as she finishes tying the slipper and lets Natalya run towards the inside of the building. Illya rolls his blue eyes before he manages to lean in and catch the corner of her lips in a quick kiss. It’s easier to live now without the agency on their backs, their relationship is real now. The ring on her finger is not bugged or fake, it’s a real diamond. Their marriage is real and so is the love for their daughter.

“I was lost,” He smiles against her mouth but his eyes are searching along the steps out of habit, “telling her our story.”

“Let me guess,” Gaby grins leaning up on the tips of her toes like only a real practiced dancer could. She’s watching him carefully, brown eyes tracing the edge of his jaw and up to the curve of his lips. He smiles so much more these days, it’s hard not to linger on them, “It has everything to do with dancing?”

“All dancing, no wrestling.” He muses before the sharp shout of his daughter drags him away from Gaby. It’s loud enough to echo over the crowd and her voice is slightly shrill for such a small girl.

“We are going to be late!” Natalya stamps her little slipper covered feet in the doorway of the dance theater. The motion is enough to draw a laugh from her husband and Gaby raises a fine brow from Natalya to Illya. Both of them stand in a sort of silence wondering which one of them passed on such an impatient gene.

“German temper. She gets it from you.” Illya quickly states and he’s moving away from her before she can swat at him. He makes it into the dance theater before Gaby can chastise him on the steps.


	13. Illya/Gaby - He Cheats To Win

**Prompt: Illya cheats on Gaby. Take it anyway you want.**

 

Gaby throws back another tumbler full of vodka and her eyes shut for just a moment, making the slightest of faces before she plants the glass back onto the table. The chess pieces bounce slightly from the impact and Illya glances up at her through his lashes, “Still your move.”

He informs her sharply, like he’s been waiting ages for her to move the next piece. Gaby gives him a sharp look before moving her hand over the board, her fingers make little swirling motions before she picks up one of the pieces and moves it carefully on the darkened squares. Illya shifts uncomfortably in the hotel chair, glancing from her move to her flushed cheeks. Even with just a few lessons and alcohol in her system she’s doing surprisingly well at the game. He wonders vaguely if she has ever played before but the notion is quickly pushed aside when Gaby reaches for the bottle of alcohol again. His eyes sweep the board and his brows crinkle just the slightest as he calculates his next move.

The transmitter beeps on the table, but there’s nothing but static coming through the line. Their mission is one indoors tonight, they’re to listen and obtain any information from bugs planted in an office building across the busy street. Only nothing has happened except an impromptu game of chess that Gaby insisted he play with her to pass the time. She’s long since kicked off her shoes and her hair is no longer in it’s low ponytail, but resting along her shoulders.

“Well now, it is your move.” She slurs her words some, fluttering her lashes before she takes another drink and steps away from the couch. Gaby stretches her legs while listening to the static, knees wobbling a bit as she moves along in a little pace. Her belly is full of alcohol and very little food, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Illya’s fingers ghost along the tops of the chess pieces. He’s made ten or twelve moves already in his head but they don’t end well. Gaby has picked up the game rather fast and somehow has pushed him into a corner. If he moves his rook he could save his queen but risk the chance of a checkmate if she sees the opening. He wonders if she’s had enough vodka yet to miss his move. Never one to lose, he waits until she’s refilling her glass and then carefully moves his rook over, but his index finger scoots his king over a single square to save the game. It’s a small move and she doesn’t seem to notice him cheating.

He wouldn’t have to cheat if she wasn’t so smug in her victories. Of course Gaby had never won a game against him, but he wasn’t about to let that change now. If she won he would never hear the end of it and while he loved to listen to the German woman talk, he didn’t love to hear her boast.

“Your move, Chop-Shop.” The corners of his mouth twitch as he says her affectionate little nickname, drawing her attention back to the board. The vodka in her glass splashes over onto her fingers as she quickly sets the glass down, moving back to the small table in front of the couch. She flops back on the cushions in a very unlady-like way, her sleepwear too baggy on her small frame as she reaches over the table. Her bottom lip is tucked into her teeth for a moment as she lets her hand float over the board once again. She’s making a soft little noise, like she’s thinking, humming and narrowing her eyes.

“No,” She starts, dark head tilting to the side as she squints at the board. Her nose wrinkles and she glances from the pieces to Illya’s face. He wills his face to remain unchanged, staring at her with a vacant stare as she watches him. “This isn’t right.”

“It is okay to lose you know.” Illya starts with that heavy accent of his washing over her. She ignores all the feelings that well up in her chest when he speaks and pushes them away, shaking her head. The determination to win is too much for her. She is competitive in everything, even if it’s something she doesn’t particularly care for.

“No, no you moved something.” Gaby accuses him pointing her index finger to him as she slurs her words a bit. Her tongue darts out over her bottom lip and she shakes her head. “You moved your king! I was going to win and you, –” The little German woman is standing now. She’s still pointing that finger at him all accusingly as she backs up and stands on the couch for height, “You cheated!”

It sounds so dramatic coming from her lips as her free hand moves up to her chest. She looks like a woman straight off of the silver screen in Hollywood. All dramatic words and gestures, shaking her head.

“I did no such thing!” Illya stands and even though Gaby is standing on the couch she isn’t much taller than him. Her nose barely touches his as she narrows her eyes down at him.

“Oh but you did! You cheated Illya!” She’s being too loud, the alcohol making her brave and flushed along her cheeks.

“No,” He shakes his blond head to her and can’t help but notice the way her lips are turning up into that cat-like smirk of hers. She lowers her lids to him, peering at him through her lashes as she leans into him. For a moment he wonders if this time she’ll actually kiss him. Her lips are so close they ghost over his with the softest of touches before she speaks to him in a quiet whisper that only the two of them can hear.

“You cheated.” And no sooner do the words leave her lips that she’s laying her chin on his shoulder. Gaby ends up wrapping her arms around him for support as the alcohol renders her down into a soft snore that is captured by his shirt. He wants to be mad, he wants to fight off her accusations but there’s no use. She’s asleep against him and he doesn’t hesitate to wrap both arms around her slender frame, pulling her up like she weighs nothing at all. 

“Tomorrow we finish this fight.” He whispers knowing she can not hear him as he carries her towards her own bed in the suite.


	14. Illya/Gaby - Real Rings

**Prompt: Gaby is really attached to the ring Illya gave her in Rome on their first mission, so when she suddenly can't find it she starts to panic and gets upset but it turns out that Illya took it to a jeweler that day so that when he asked her to marry him, it would be with a real pearl at the center. Pls? :D**

 

“No, no, no.” Gaby’s hands are pushing papers everywhere. The small coffee table is a mess with their latest assignment, only she’s looking for something else. Her fingers comb over the sides of the manilla envelopes before she turns her attention to the small couch. Her fingers dive down between cushions and she starts pushing the pillows out of the way and onto the floor.

“No,” She whispers pulling cushions off of the couch next, looking under them for any signs of jewelry. The ring on her left hand is gone. She’s lost it sometime in the night while discussing the latest mission with Solo and Illya both. Of course she had drank just enough too that she can’t remember when she took off the little fake ring from Rome. The transmitter in the pear died a long time ago, but Gaby kept the ring. It was still pretty and it gave her a sense of security – a reminder that Illya had been a good fake fiance before their relationship ever took off.

Throwing down the couch cushion, she stalks off towards the bedroom, pushing open the door with an irritated sigh leaving her lips, “This is not happening.” She’s talking to herself as she moves for the bedroom side table, fingers skimming along the edge of the photo frame that sits there. It’s a snapshot of Illya and herself in Prague from a few missions ago when he finally kissed her. The small sentiment made her heart skip a few beats as she searched over the nightstand and then moved the pillows on the bed.

There was no sign of the little ring. Her right hand moved over, fiddling with her left ring finger for a moment, missing the little bit of weight there. Gaby’s lips pressed into a thin line as she paced about the room. Her brown eyes sweeping across the room looking for any sign of the piece of jewelry. There was nothing in the bedroom which prompted her to check the bathroom then the small jewelry box in her closet before she made her way back out. The small London flat belonged to her, a new home for a new job away from the Iron Curtain and here she was tearing it apart. Pillows littered the ground along with junk mail and a few pieces of clothes. She was on the floor when the front door opened.

Her legs were crossed under her as she reached inside of the liquor cabinet, fingers pulling at different bottles for any sign of the little ring. The only thing she remembered from the night before was talking of the possible chance of going to the beach while they would be on a mission in Spain. After that it was all a sort of drunken haze from one too many tumblers full of clear liquid.

“What happened here?” Illya’s voice echoes over the small flat and Gaby freezes in place. She hasn’t been able to find the ring and now the sudden feeling of guilt is welling up in her chest. She shouldn’t feel guilty over a fake ring but it means something to her. It was the start of a new life, the start of a new job, and even the starting spark to her relationship with the KGB Agent.

“Redecorating.” Gaby informs him as she pulls the cork out of one of the bottles at her feet and she takes a quick drink from it. Illya’s coat is covered in small flurries and his cheeks are slightly flushed from the winter winds, but that isn’t what has her attention. In his hand there’s a little black shopping back and he’s playing with the string, rocking the bag back and forth.

The tall Russian shakes his head, gesturing to the mess around the flat, “The whole place?”

He seems amused with her and backs away, shrugging off his trench coat and hanging it by the door before he pulls off his hat. His blond hair is slightly mused and he’s trying to get his gloves off while she gets herself to her feet, leaning against the back of the couch, “Seems that way, what’s that?”

She points at the bag in his hand and he raises it up, “This?”

“Yes, that.” Gaby nods as he holds up the bag and shakes it, reminding her all over again of the morning after ‘wrestling’ in Rome. The edges of his lips turning up into a small smile as he edged towards her. He towered over her easily leaning down a bit as she turned her head up to meet him.

“Do you really want to know?” He asked softly eyebrows raising as she leans up on the tips of her toes. Even on the very tips of her toes she can’t reach him. Illya has to close the gap between them and he does just that. He meets her halfway for a quick kiss. Electricity sparks across her lips as he kisses her before pulling back from her.

“I do.” She answers him with her cheeks flushed now, peering up at him through thick lashes.

He leans back just a bit more, “Then explain why you have destroyed the house.”

Something inside Gaby deflates. She exhales loudly and leans back on her feet, clasping her hands in front of her for a moment. Deciding not to answer him, she takes a couple steps back from him and looks around at the destruction she’s caused in the little tiny flat. It looks like a small tornado has ripped through, destroying the hard work the decorator originally had put into it. Her teeth sank low into her bottom lip and she turned to face him, twisting her fingers together.

“I lost it.” Gaby finally whispers the words that have been bothering her all day long. She has looked in every nook and cranny, and there is still no sign of the little fake engagement ring.

“Lost what?” His Russian accent is thick and heavy in his words, making her feel like a child in trouble as she bites harder on her bottom lip.

Gaby sucks in another sharp breath and turns away from him, pushing her hands together along the back of the couch, she can’t seem to face him at the moment. It feels silly and yet she’s full of a guilt she can’t quite put her finger on as she spills her secret, “My ring. The little pearl one. It’s gone.”

Gaby holds up her left hand, her back to Illya and wiggles her fingers. Her eyes slide along the ruined living room when she feels Illya’s chest brush along her back. Part of her contemplates leaning back into him, but the sudden feeling of something cold on her hand pulls that idea away from her. Her brown eyes glance to her left hand and the new ring Illya is sliding down along her finger. It fits perfect and it looks identical to the little false one she’s worn since Rome. The only difference is that it feels heavier, it feels real.

“I-Illya,”

She feels her throat constrict as his fingers close over her hand. His chest presses over her back as he leans in, lips brushing her cheek as he speaks to her in that soft voice reserved for only her, “Real ring for real fiance.”


	15. Illya/Gaby - Slow Taste of Sour

**Hi, I have a request: Gaby is honeypot in a mission while Napoleon and Illya are looking for something else. Mission goes wrong, and Gaby ends up being tortured and abused by the captors while Solo and Illya are trying to find her. A lot of angst and just a lot of comfort??? Thanks -**

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**!!! CAUTION! This work has a bit of torture scene, nothing too graphic but possibly triggering. !!!**

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There’s a deafening crack that echos in her ears. The pain that explodes along with it reminds her that she is alive. The taste of copper floods her mouth and Gaby coughs before she can stop herself, clenching her jaw tightly, tasting the mix of blood and saliva as it coats her teeth and tongue. Everything has gone terribly wrong in a matter of hours. Most of her clothing is gone. Her skin is slick with sweat and she’s chilled to the bone. Gaby’s wrists are tied together so painfully tight that the rope is biting into her flesh, tearing away at the delicate skin. Even so, she doesn’t stop trying to pull her wrists apart. She doesn’t stop fighting and she doesn’t stop to think about Illya and Napoleon coming to find her dead. A few hours ago she had been right in their sights and now they were nowhere to be found. Of course a few hours ago she had been supposedly safe. Dressed in a beautiful gown and meant to spend the night on the arm of a wealthy man.

All she had to do was keep him downstairs at his own party, keep him out of the upper levels where his study held onto key paperwork regarding his less than legal imports of highly dangerous chemicals. It should have been easy, she even got to wear a golden mask, one that fit around her eyes and tied along the back of her curled hair. It matched her dress, layers of golden with touches of red, gloves up the length of her arms. The fake ring still sitting snug on her ring finger, a reminder that both Illya and Solo would be close by. She had been something out of a fairytale not some garage in East Germany. Napoleon had procured their invitations to the private event and Illya had escorted Gaby in. Both boys dressed in the darkest of suits with their own masks, the three of them splitting up as soon as they made it inside, but never taking their eyes off one another. It was part of their work. They worked better as a team than apart. The KGB lending Illya more and more to U.N.C.L.E. and Napoleon requesting more and more time away to gather ‘information’ for the CIA to use in time. Of course everything he was feeding them was useless but that was more or less harmless in Napoleon’s world.

There’s the sound of someone stepping hard upstairs reminding her of the mission. All she can do is remember the way the small quartet played in the grand hall of the mansion. The soft string music pouring in quick beats along the sea of guests. Each one dressed more elegant than the rest, letting Napoleon’s sticky fingers twitch in delight. Their night was supposed to be an easy mission. Gaby was to find the man of the hour and dance with him, seduce him into a master bedroom and then deliver a powerful drug into his system while Napoleon and Illya broke into the safe within his office. From there they would report back and U.N.C.L.E. would make the final call. Only they never got that far. Gaby had found her mark, an armenian Prince and his hands were way too friendly for just dancing. Grigor Aleksandr was made of money and power, but he wasn’t soft like most of her marks had been. Grigor’s hands on her own had been calloused and rough, his smile could cut glass and he knew what he wanted before she could even make a suggestion. They had only danced for a few short songs when he whispered in her ear, a quiet promise to take her to the stars and back if she followed him up one of the grand staircases. Gaby could remember looking around the room, trying to catch the eye of one of her teammates but they were nowhere in sight. She had to trust they were already in the study when she agreed to go with him.

Going with Grigor had been a mistake. Gaby knew that now that it was too late. No sooner had he gotten her upstairs did he win the game they were playing. The kisses were not coy, they were a clash of teeth and tongue. Grigor’s lips had barely started down her jaw when he bit her the first time. Sharp teeth tugging at the slope of her neck, hands skimming the golden layers of her dress. When she tried to move him towards the bed, he pushed back, easily overpowering her. He stood closer to Illya’s size, making her crane her neck back to even see him and he wouldn’t stop touching her. It all made her skin crawl. His hands moved for her mask and he pulled it off sharply, messing up her elegant curls. She had decided then and there that enough was enough. Fingers skimming for her hidden syringe along the edges of her dress. Somewhere under all the layers was a hidden pocket, she just had to find it first. By the time she had her fingers on it though, he had followed her gaze and that was the end of her mission. Anger erupted over his face, turning his dark cheeks red and he was screaming at her. He had put her hands at her back, pinned them down and nearly broke her wrist trying to get the little syringe away from her. He found the drug meant for him of course and stuck it into her own side, depressing the plunger and sending her into darkness. That was the last bit of memory Gaby had of the masquerade.

Now she was stuck in some damp basement like room. There was no sign of outside light, just a small florescent bulb a few feet away, illuminating a single circle on the floor. Her shoes had been taken away along with her stocking, gloves, and most of her dress. All taken so she presumably couldn’t hang herself without giving up information in an interrogation. She’s alone for the most part, resting on her side with an empty stomach, and fear starting to eat at her consciousness. They keep her awake now that the drug is wearing off. Gaby has no real idea how long she’s been down there, but judging by the stiffness in her joints it’s been a while. She’s visited by at least two different men. One she believes is Grigor and the other one must be his employee. Despite her current situation she has to keep her skills sharp. She has to look for any opportunity to escape.

Rolling on to her back she stares up at the dark ceiling, her hands bound behind her, digging into the small of her back. After a moment she exhales slowly, feeling the tension coil along her insides as the fear starts to settle in. Along with her gloves being gone, her fake engagement ring is gone and so is the possibility that her partners may show up. Gaby’s bottom lip trembles but before any sob can claw its way from her throat, a door opens. It’s followed by heavy steps and before she can look to see who it is, there’s a sharp kick in her side. Gaby’s body is forced to her left, rolling her closer to the wall, her eyes squeezing shut as she bites back a sharp cry. Her side radiates pain and before she can roll over to face her attacker, there’s a hand gripping on the back of her neck. Fingers dig into her skin, bruising the flesh as they pull her back. It doesn’t matter she can’t reach the person dragging her, she kicks out regardless.

She’s drawn across the floor, towards the single bulb hanging in the room. She’s dropped there on the spot of light, laying there with her eyes squeezing shut to block out the bright light. There were a few moments of silence but that was all she got before the beating started. The bottom of her feet were hit first.

Three strikes were hit against each sole with something cold and metal. Despite all her iron will she yells. Her voice hitches in her throat and she can hardly hear the question leaving her captor’s mouth. The accent is all too familiar. It’s definitely Grigor and he’s asking her who she works for. When Gaby doesn’t answer, there’s another three strikes and the sound of her right foot cracking under the pressure. It goes on for hours. Her lips are cracked and the only thing that’s left her lips are sharp German curses. There are tear tracks over her dirty cheeks and her fingers are mostly broken and bent. If she closes her eyes she can pretend she’s in a garage, under a car and working on things that are so much easier than seducing people. Grigor leaves her with one more strike on her broken foot and a promise to see her in an hour for another round of questions. He makes the promise that she will answer them and the only thing Gaby can do is spit. It’s a feeble attempt at rebellion that only earns her a sharp laugh. Girgor doesn’t give her a second glance as he steps over her body and leaves her once more in the dark basement under the swinging light.

—

This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go. Two top agents lost their partner in the middle of a mission. While navigating the mansion they had gotten turned around, almost caught twice and forced to use force on some of the nosy staff. Eventually they found the study and after exchanging insults, Solo hit the filing cabinet and the bottom drawer slipped open. It was stacked full of envelopes. Envelopes that were stuffed and scribbled on in gibberish. The two of them started sifting through them when Gaby’s transmission came through. The pieces in their ears came off in bursts of static, Gaby’s voice starting off strong and then it unfolded into something sugary. Jealousy welled up in Illya’s chest and he reached up to pull the earpiece out when the first sound of someone outside of the study stole their attention.

Gathering all the papers they could, they started stuffing them inside of one of the briefcases in the room. They poured most of the bottom drawer into the case. Napoleon snapping it shut and the two of them made their way out of the study, running into one of the staff members. Things quickly turning violent as Illya strikes the man in the throat before, knocking his body to the side. The two of them continued to make their way for the main set of stairs. Walking fast, eyes scanning for their next potential threat when the static in their ears brings them back to reality. Gaby’s voice filled the little coms. It was no longer that soft velvet she had used earlier. It was panicked, almost like glass cracking under pressure. Then it was all silent.

Napoleon’s gaze meets Illya’s and the two of them have a silent communication. Two short nods and the two of them are off in search of Gaby. They started in the direction she should have been in. Only she wasn’t in the master bedroom when they broke in – guns drawn. There was no sign of her at all aside from a pair of woman’s heels in Gaby’s size and satin gloves with a fake little engagement ring tangled up in them. Rage took over the Russian when Napoleon picked up the ring, turning it over in his hand. He threw the nightstand first, shattering the lamp and he wanted to tear up more but he couldn’t risk the time. Thrusting the briefcase into his partner’s hands, Illya leaves the bedroom first. In one quick motion he’s pulling his gun out of the holster under his coat. All as they started the extraction part of their mission early.

—

When the door finally closes she lets herself sob. It racks her whole body, filling her with more pain. Before she can cry the door opens once again. It causes her to instantly snap her lips shut. Bracing herself for round two, she wonders just how much time has passed or if it was all a ploy to make her talk. Gaby’s so lost in her worried thoughts, she doesn’t hear the second set of feet or the harsh Russian curse that cuts through the air.

“Gaby,” Illya’s voice comes to her and makes her open her eyes to the harsh florescent bulb. There’s a tall figure blocking most of it, bending towards her. He doesn’t know where to put his hands first. When he reaches for her, she flinches. It’s a small gesture that ultimately breaks him. After being so careful with her in Rome and the months following that, she’s afraid. He can not blame her though. Judging by the purpling skin along her arms, and the swollen ankles tucked under her, she’s been through hell and back.

Her lips part and she curses softly, before his hand gently touches the side of her face. She turns her head over, gaze landing on his father’s watch. Relief rushes through her and she turns her head over, closing her eyes against his touch. She presses her lips against his palm and murmurs something of an apology. One that breaks his heart as he looks across the room to the steps. Napoleon’s gun is steady in his hands as he nods his dark head.

“Grigor is gone.” Napoleon’s jaw is set tight and he looks worried and relieved all at once, “How’s our girl?”

Illya’s fingers curl over Gaby’s cheek and he feels the edges of his lips tick up for just a moment, “Strong.”

“Time to go Peril,” His voice is soft but Illya knows he can’t sit on the floor forever with Gaby. He’s got to get her out of there, they both do and they both need to finish the mission. So, they do just that. Napoleon watching his back as he manages to carry Gaby with ease. She’s tucked into his chest, broken fingers pressing over his shirt, shivering against him when they make it outside. Gaby’s heard Napoleon’s gun fire off a few times, the silencer letting of sharp hisses of air each time. She doesn’t know how long it takes to leave the Mansion. All she knows is that she is safe. Warm against her comrade and when she comes back to her senses she knows they’ll both still be there.


	16. AU - Self Defense Classes

**AU. Gaby signed up for some martial arts classes and Illya's her instructor. On her first day, some guys proceed to chat her up. Illya feels an intense jealousy and he chastises himself because he doesn't even know her. He was surprised when he was assigned as her instructor and treats her coldly(he's still jealous). He also doesn't expect much from her because she's so SMOL but she shocks him by kicking some ass.**

The gym had been slacking in business before Illya took it over. It wasn’t anything big or fancy, but it had an apartment upstairs and low rent. Basically it was all Illya needed to start up his small business, that and a few new signs. He had the windows and outside of the building washed before new signs were installed and a small one advertising a special on self-defense for beginners. He had been training people for many years back in the military, but now he was trying to start over. So many miles from his base in Russia, he settled himself in the bustling city of New York and made himself at home. He had only put up the sign yesterday and already his class was filling up by the time he took it down. His gym was full of bright blue mats and the wall was full of mirrors to show people their moves from all angles. What little equipment he had was pushed against the walls, freeing up space in the middle for his latest class. It was full of a bunch of misfits from his first glance alone. Very few men dispersed along several women all up for the chance of self-defense in such a dangerous city.

All in all, it was a good turn out. He shut the door for the evening and took to the front of the room, watching as his new students lingered about, chatting softly among one another. One in particular catching his eye. She was barely to anyone’s shoulder in the room, her brown hair pulled back into a curling ponytail and her brown eyes crinkling with a smile as a fellow student spoke with her. His body language was all charm, turned towards the smaller woman with his blue eyes raking up and down her form. She was dressed in gym clothes, bright orange sports top with black tight fitting gear on that was more fit for yoga than sparring but this was a beginner’s class. They would have six weeks to learn the basics he had to teach them and then maybe they could give him a glowing recommendation. It would stir up new business for him so he could actually make the astronomical rent that came with a place like his in the city.

The woman laughed and something struck a cord in Illya as he glanced to the other man grabbing on to her hand and shaking it, fingers lingering along her own, turning her hand over and tracing her palm. There was a tell-tale sign of a blush on her face and he felt the need to break them up. Something inside of him wanting to pull her away from a potential predator and give her the tools to defend herself from the pushy man. Clearing his throat he pushed those thoughts aside and moved for the front part of the mats. He was taller than anyone else in the room by a few good inches which gave him a good view of the mix of people standing at attention. All eyes were on him when he started speaking. Illya started with the basics. He read them the proper way to stretch before anything started and then the best defense was knowing their surroundings. He warned them from short-cuts, dark alleys, and walking in unfamiliar territories alone. He was thorough in his teaching as he paced along the edge of one of the blue mats before someone asked when they were going to actually start the lesson.

“Lesson has started,” Illya said coldly as he narrowed his blue gaze across the heads of his students. There was an uneven number of them and then he started grouping them together in his head and no doubt the charming slimeball next to the small woman would team up with her. He grit his teeth together tightly, jaw ticking slightly from the pressure as he quickly pointed to the small woman, “You come here. The rest of you pair up.”

There was a soft murmur amongst the students as they started pairing up and the small woman stepped up to him with confident steps. She barely came up to his chest, turning her head up and staring up at him with a sort of amusement as she turned her head to the side for a moment as if sizing him up, “Hello.”

She had a fair accent tacked onto her words. It was no where as harsh as his own, planting her somewhere in Germany with that sort of tone.

“Do you have a name?” Illya asked, skipping over her greeting.

“I do, it’s a good one.” She rolled her gaze right up to the scar by his eye, making him turn away from her with another tick of his jaw, fingers flexing for a moment.

“Good.” He doesn’t ask again. Instead he turns towards the class and takes a few steps back from the small woman and gestures from her to him, “Since you all want to know badly how to defend yourself. I will show you how bad you look now. After my classes you will be much better. Russian way, always better.”

He takes another step back for good measure as he ushers the rest of the class back a bit for their own safety. They all take a few steps back to the far wall, everyone settling in an excited sort of whisper as he points at the woman.

“You,” He starts, turning his full attention on the small woman. “Attack me.”

When she doesn’t move right away, he looks to the rest of the students, “You never know when your attacks will come or how they–”

He doesn’t get to finish his statement. There’s a sudden collision with his side and he goes down quick. There’s a moment where the air leaves his lungs and his feet move out from under him. His hands instantly curl around the small woman as he falls to the mat with a grunt leaving his lips. He moves his arms up to lift her but she knees him first in the stomach and then once again in the groin and his fight is all but futile for a moment he lays back on the mat, stunned. His blue gaze is on his ceiling for a moment before she comes into his view. The small woman has him pinned with her hands on his upper arms and knees on either side of his chest. For a small woman, she has a lot of power and something inside of him softens. The red haze that usually invades his mind while fighting starts to clear. He ignores the rest of the students in his class, all stifling their giggles and whispers as the woman smiles triumphantly over him. She is breathtaking.

“Gaby.”

He expected a cheer or something of a gloat, not a name. “What?”

“My name, it’s Gaby.” She laughed sharply as she let her fingers slide away from his shoulders.

“You’re right.” Illya breathed softly, “It’s a good one.”


	17. Illya/Gaby - He Dreams of the Future

**I have this prompt stuck in my head where gallya is on their honeymoon or had just gotten engaged for real and one of them asks the other what they're thinking and they say something like "who would have thought the first time we saw each other, tearing through the streets of East Berlin, that we would fall in love like this. Start a life together." I am all about them reminiscing like this please?**

 

It doesn’t matter that the wedding was hours ago, she still looks stunning. Even her exhausted smile has his heart skipping a beat or two. Gaby pulls on her shades and leans up on the tips of her toes and kisses his cheek. Her lips are soft, brushing along the edge of his jaw as she pulls away and he resists the urge to turn his head down and kiss her in front of all those waiting to get on board the plane headed for Brazil. Instead he smooths his hand along the small of her back and ushers her forward, handing their boarding passes to the airline employee who greets them with a standard smile. Their tickets are ran through and the two of them board the plane with the rest of the public dressed for vacation in the best outfits Illya could have picked out. The flight is long and even though they’re both agents, Gaby falls asleep while Illya keeps a sharp eye on the ordinary people around them. Her head lands on his shoulder and she slumbers on through the rest of the flight. When they land, he gently shakes her awake with a hand on her cheek. Fingers brushing down along the curve of her jaw where her lips start to pull into a lazy smile.

From there they step off the plane and into the tropical weather of Cabo and he never lets go of her hand. From the airport to the taxi, his hand keeping hers safe and his fingers ghosting over the ring on her left hand. The ring looks like the fake one he gave her in Rome only this one is real. It is very real, expensive and it looks beautiful on her. The cab pulls away from the airport and takes them to a hotel that Napoleon has somehow managed to get U.N.C.L.E. to pay for and it’s beautiful like the rest of the country, sitting on the sparkling beach and giving them a view of ocean for miles. It’s nothing like the inside of the Iron Curtain. They make their way to the balcony of their room and the view is breathtaking. The ocean covers most of the view for miles ,sparkling in the bright sun as it licks up the white sands of the beach. Gaby’s hand lets go of his own and pulls her sunhat off, tossing it on the table behind her as her brows move up over her sunglasses, “Look at this.” She breathes out in a soft tone.

Her hands cover the railing and stretch out slightly. She’s in love with the feeling of the sun on her skin and Illya is captivated by the sight of her.

“I am looking at it.” Illya answers her quietly, his accent brushing over his words as she turns her head over and he knows she’s rolling her eyes at him behind those oversized sunglasses. Her lips turn up a little more as she smiles wider at him and he steps forward, pressing his chest along her back and then covers her hands with his own on the balcony. Gaby tilts her dark head back and lets it rest on his chest as the two of them stand there, soaking up the sun.

“Did you ever think this would happen?” Gaby suddenly asks. Her attention is still out on the view but her hands turn under his, palms pressing under his own. He raises a brow and looks down for a moment at the crown of her head before a scoff leaves his lips.

“No,” He answers her honestly with his tone rumbling in his chest, vibrating against her back as he thinks back to two years ago when he saw her behind the wheel of a dark car. “I saw you in that car at the time. Never thought to see you at alter.”

“Never?” Gaby asked carefully, her interest is clearly piqued now. Lips up in a smirk, with her teeth tugging at her bottom lip for a moment as she thinks back on that night. When their partner Solo coaxed her out of that garage with the promise of getting her over the wall. She had sat in the driver’s seat all confidence and ego when the little white car pulled up along side her own. Gaby remembered the way her knuckles turned white against her grip on the steering wheel, how her heart had started slamming in her chest when she looked up, catching the blue eyes of the Russian man who was now her husband. At the time he had frightened her. He was Russian and Solo had mentioned something of how the Russians would chain her to a pipe and rip out of her toenails if she was caught by them. Fear had gripped her that night when she slammed her foot on the accelerator, not forgetting the way his eyes caught hers.

“Never,” He nods as his fingers lace along hers and he takes a deep breath inhaling the sharp scent that is Gaby, all motor oil and slick metal. He lets her squeeze his hands lightly and his eyes close remember the way she drove like she was made for a life in the fast lane. She drove better than he ever could hope for and even when they crashed, he was only filled with anger for the American, not her. He can also recall the small glimpse of her he got before Solo swept her off the roof, taking her away from him.

“Not even in Rome?” Gaby smiled lazily at her own choice in words. Playing his fiance then had been a terrible idea. She had hated it from the moment he stepped up and called her his woman, but now it was hard to imagine a mission where they weren’t together. They were either married or engaged, or having a tryst to keep Napoleon’s cover and it felt so much more natural now than it had in Rome, going through the motions. Still she can remember the way the vodka burned at the back of her throat, sloshing in her empty stomach when the radio was turned up two notches too loud. She had slid her feet across the hotel carpet and danced. Her arms going up and coming back down, taking his hands in her own and making him dance. She had clapped his hands together.

“You hit me.” He interrupts her train of thought with his own reminiscing. Recalling the way her small hands took his and then she proceeded to hit him in the face, not once but twice. His index finger had come up and he warned her – but then she took him by surprise and the tackle that had come from the whole ordeal had thrown him to the ground. She was deceptively strong. Something he figured came from working in a garage, lugging around heavy tools and engine lifts. She was stronger than anyone he knew in her own way. Sharp tongue, cunning words, and charm that could quell even the angriest of snakes.

Gaby laughed at his words, “I did and you– you let me.”

“I did not.”

“You did so!” She is accusing him of going soft and he scoffs once more leaning his head down and pressing his chin to the top of her head. His shoulders are hunched over her and he refuses to admit he let her win their scuffle in the hotel room, “Illya, you could have moved me if you wanted to.”

“I was testing you.” He answers with a soft murmur against her hair and she turns her head up, just enough for his lips to graze her temple.

“Did I pass?” She whispered it so quietly, he almost missed her words to the soft ocean breeze that washed over the two of them.

“Chop shop girl,” He answers her with his mouth skimming down her tan cheek, “You passed when you drove through the streets of Berlin like some criminal on a mission.”

She grins, “Technically, I was a criminal.” Her head turns up a little more and he finds her mouth awfully close to his own. He can feel the words on the tip of her tongue, knowing she’s going to tell him she’d never go back to East Berlin but he cuts them off with a quick kiss. The kind of kiss that reminds them both they are on their honeymoon, that they’re starting their life over, together.

“Best looking criminal in Brazil.” He informs her, “And now no longer criminal, but wife. Wife of best Russian in all of Brazil. Makes you even better.”


	18. Illya/Gaby - Has He Struck You?

**Prompt: "Had he struck you yet?" In which Illya gets angry and accidentally hurts Gaby, Napoleon is driven to his wits end by a guilty, Gaby-avoiding KGB bear and Gaby defends Illya's honor.**

 

Their cover is almost blown.

If it wasn’t for Illya they would be running for the hills, mission not-accomplished. With quick thinking, he not only spills his untouched drink onto one of the head security guards, but he breaks the whole place out into an all out brawl. Bottles are flying and the sound of glass shattering echos off of the walls. Napoleon makes the switch with their mark in all the commotion and Gaby is climbing up and over the bar. Her heeled feet kick at all the glasses left on the bar as she makes her way towards safety. Only she doesn’t get on the other side. A hand grips onto her upper arm and yanks her back into the commotion. Her dress is white and ruined when the first spray of beer comes from a broken bottle overhead and the world is a blur. She’s too short to see much of anyone other than a mass of arms swinging overhead.

She still fights back though. Her hands curl into uniformed fists and she punches the man who grabbed on to her. She sends the glasses on his face to the floor and his jaw is unhinged under the pressure of her fist. The pain from impact vibrates up her arm and even with the adrenaline coursing through her veins it still hurts.

Napoleon manages to take out quite a few men, but Illya is unstoppable. He wonders if his partner is lost in that pent of rage of his. Illya’s eyes are narrowed, his fists are swinging methodically and he’s angry. Napoleon can tell by the way his jaw twitches, how he’s holding himself in a fight, going for soft exposed pieces of flesh on the enemies. It doesn’t take much to push Illya over the proverbial edge and that reigns true when he takes out three or four men in less than a minute. They all fall to the ground simultaneously, clattering bones along the broken glass. Most of the security guards for their mark are down, the others have fled with the multi-billionaire in tow, and Illya is breathing hard. His chest rising and falling as his world is tinged in red. When Napoleon moves for the door, Gaby moves for Illya.

Her smaller hands are outstretched for his fists. Her fingers barely graze over his flesh when he lashes out. His eyes are barely open, his body is on high-alert and he knocks her back in one forceful move. It’s an accident, but she still tumbles back. Her heeled feet lose their balance and she hits the ground, hands falling on broken glass. As soon as it happens, Illya knows what he’s done.

“Gaby,” Illya breathes out her name carefully when she pulls her palms up and he watches the small trails of blood slip over the heel of her hand and the way her fingers twitch at the pain.

“Illya?” She exhales sharply, his name is a question on her tongue as her fingers curl over the jagged pieces of glass in her flesh. He’s never hit her before, never lashed out, and when his anger takes hold of him she is the one who calms him down. It’s a simple trick she learned back in Rome. He won’t hurt her, so she puts herself in his way and like magic she can make the red haze dissipate. Before either one of them can move, Napoleon is there. He curls his hands under her upper arms and hauls her up to her feet, frowning at the appearance of her hands. His blue gaze flicks from her small wounds to Illya’s guilt ridden face. His eyes are dropped, head down some and his shoulders are almost sagging – but he still manages a perfect posture. The silence ticks by as Gaby leans back into Napoleon’s hold for a moment, shock still coursing throughout her veins as she feels the pain settle in.

“I suggest we go, before the authorities show up to haul us to jail. I don’t think Waverly will call in an extraction team for us.” Napoleon speaks, but his boyish charm is empty, he’s concerned now and it’s written all over his face as he hauls Gaby the rest of the way up and takes off his jacket, wrapping it around her ruined dress. Illya nods and they’re all gone before the sirens can pierce the night sky.

—

Napoleon manages to bandage Gaby up after she gets a drink or two into her belly, the two of them settling over the hotel bathroom sink while he gently pulls out slivers of glass. She complains even though his methods are gentle, a whine breaking through her words as she sits on the edge of the counter. Her legs swing back and forth slowly while he works, only wincing ever so slightly when he pulls a particularly thick piece of glass from her palm,.

“Ouch!” She hisses out the word before sinking down against the vanity. Napoleon pulls back the shard in a pair of tweezers before dropping it into a spare tumbler. The glass clinks softly before Napoleon drags her hand under the sink and turns on the cool water. It burns at first, but Gaby starts to welcome the numbing coolness as the water cleans away the rest of the blood. Her calloused fingers dance under the water for a moment before her brown eyes cut over to her make-shift nurse.

He’s looking at her expectantly, waiting on an answer to a question he has yet to even ask her. Illya hasn’t been seen since they made it back to the hotel, he’s held up probably in his room, guilt ridden. He wouldn’t look at her in the car, he wouldn’t even hold the door for her into the hotel like he always did. His eyes were stuck on her hands and then his own. His own fingers doing they’re small tap, tap, tap number. Gaby wonders if he’ll even look her in the eye at breakfast. She’s so lost in her thoughts that she almost doesn’t catch Napoleon’s question.

“Has he struck you before? It’s possibly none of my business, but he hasn’t right?” 

Gaby yanks her hand out from the spray of water and flicks her fingers at his face, letting water speckle across his handsome face, “Just what kind of woman do you think I am?” Anger lances through her words as she straightens up on the countertop, “Do you think I let people hurt me willingly? I’m not some bored subservient housewife!”

“Easy, easy!” Napoleon puts up both hands in a sign of surrender to the small German woman. She looks feral with her top lip curling up as her brows furrow, “I just know how he is. I know how he can’t always be…” Napoleon trails off for a moment and Gaby huffs, sliding off of the counter, determined to stand as tall as she can even though her partner is a good head taller than her.

“He can not always be what?” Gaby scoffs as she narrows her gaze, her wounded hands curling into fists only for her to wince and let them fall at her sides, “What is it? He can not be nice? He can not be some charming, womanizer like you are?”

“Human.” The way Napoleon says it almost stings.

Gaby takes a step back and doesn’t hesitate. She slams both palms into Napoleon’s chest and while he doesn’t go anywhere, he looks slightly hurt from her attack on him. Her palms leave behind little crimson bits of blood on his very expensive suit shirt and before he can apologize or take back his words, she’s scolding him with a tone that would scare any red blooded man, “How dare you say that about him.” She squares her shoulders and doesn’t hold back. The words pour from her before her brain can slow her down.

“He is very human. He cares, he fights, and he is a lot more of a gentleman than I can say about you at times.” Gaby pauses for a breath but carries on anyways, her words catching on her throat as the dangerous need to spill all those feelings she’s kept in her chest since Rome. They haven’t kissed, but he’s always near and never lets her forget it. Before any mission, his lips graze the shell of her ear and his harsh accent washes over her.

“Don’t worry I will be close by.”

“He will tear you apart one day.” Napoleon explains, but Gaby isn’t having any of it.

“No, one day he won’t have to count to three. He won’t have to have me hold his hand because one day he’ll be better than all of this and if he isn’t, I will still hold onto him because that’s what partners do Solo! They don’t give up on them and they don’t call them machines!” She yells out the last part of her statement before marching out of the bathroom and right into a solid Russian built wall.

Illya’s hands clamp down over her shoulders and she barrels right into him. He doesn’t budge but instead holds up his right hand. When Gaby glances at it, she sees he’s holding a handful of bandages for her, but his face is stoic, lashes are slightly damp and his gaze barely meets hers.

He’s heard it all.

Their whole conversation is ringing in his ears and he feels guilt welling up inside of him, it feels like he’s swallowed lead. His fingers shake as he moves the bandages down and his hand skims her forearm, pulling her palm up as he glances to Napoleon over her shoulder, “Cowboy is terrible nurse.”He whispers it softly and Gaby nods.

“He is a terrible nurse.” She repeats his words and tries to smile up at him. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly and he pulls her hand up a bit closer, wrapping one length of cotton bandage around her palm. With a quick twist and a tie, he has it secured and his lips cover the spot, gentle and light. She almost doesn’t feel it.

“I am sorry.” He mutters against her palm and Gaby looks over her shoulder at Napoleon for a moment and then turns her soft gaze back to Illya’s bowed head. He’s bowed so low, she can easily reach him now.

“I accept your apology, but you shouldn’t apologize for an accident.” She reaches her other hand up and the backs of her fingers stroke down along the side of his cheek, meeting stubble and sharp edges. He nods so slightly she almost misses it as she leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead, “And you are very human.”


	19. Illya/Gaby - Somethings Don't Mix

**Imagine Gaby finding out that the KGB has ordered Illya to find a man who escaped over the Berlin Wall and return him to East Germany.**

 

The hotel room is cool with the windows open, overlooking the edge of the land where there’s a vast expanse of blue along the horizon. Gaby has never seen so much blue in all her life. Her hands are covering the edge of the railing on the balcony. She’s leaning over on the tips of her toes as if the little bit of leverage will let her see where the water ends. They’re mission in Denmark is finished and they only have a few hours left of this view, and Gaby is soaking it all up, while Illya is leaning in the doorway. His arms are crossed into his jacket and while he should be packing, he is enjoying the view too much to move just yet. He’s allowing himself one good thing before they pack up and move again. 

U.N.C.L.E. is not permanent and neither is his gaze on the mechanic who is far too close to the edge for his liking. He watches as she moved her hands up and starts gathering her hair, keeping it out of her face as the sea breeze greets them both. She ties off her hair and turns to face him, warm sun spilling across her cheeks as she gestures both hands out to the view, “You should come join me.” She insists with both brows raising.

Shaking his head with the smallest of movements he declines her, “No, best to be going.” He assures her as he steps out of the door and disappears into their shared room. Another mission, another fake relationship, another dance around each other. They haven’t been able to speak about Rome and anytime his mouth moves remotely close to hers, something always intervenes. It’s not meant to be, but it doesn’t stop either of them from toeing the line. It’s a dangerous dance that they keep up, in and out of each other’s personal spaces and waking up in the middle of the night just to curl around each other. He sweeps those thoughts away and starts his meticulous packing. Removing all of Solo’s bugs from his clothes and tossing them into the hotel garbage can before there is a knock at the door. He wonders vaguely if the hotel concierge is early for check out, but none the less remains rigid, ready to attack before he pulls the door open only to have an envelope thrusted at him by a man dressed as an employee.

The envelope is small and has Russian lettering on the front of it. Pulling himself back inside of the room, he lets the door shut behind him with a soft click before he opens the piece of stationary. On the inside is a phone number and a letter of date indicating a time of a new mission. This is not from U.N.C.L.E. This is a KGB mission. When he dials the number, Gaby is treating herself to a drink, dancing along the lines of sunlight that are spilling across the plush carpet. He pulls the phone receiver in closer to himself, taking a mental picture of Gaby spinning in the sundress. Illya’s gaze almost makes him miss the sound of his handler on the phone. The thick Russian words washing over him, a new mission. The KGB is tugging on his leash and like a faithful agent, he must go. Waverly will understand. After all, Illya is on a personal loan from Russia. He’s not a free man.

The mission is a simple one. He’s to hunt and detain a German chemist who somehow made it over the wall and bring him back to East Berlin. He’s the closest agent within their reach and of course he agrees to go. With quick short answers in his mother-tongue, he’s agreed to take the first flight to Berlin within the hour. The flight will be short considering they’re touching the German border, but it will be faster than taking a car. He barely gets the receiver down when Gaby throws back her tumbler of golden liquid and sets the glass aside.

“New mission?” She asks all excited. This mission has been a success and she’s practically glowing from it.

“Yes, but not for you.” He agrees and doesn’t meet her gaze because he knows her lips are turning down in a frown. Instead he focuses back on packing, folding his dress shirts with the utmost care for their creases.

“Oh, for you then?” Gaby asks but she already knows the answer as she moves forward towards his open suitcase. His packing skills are much more superb than her own and she makes a face at him, suddenly wishing for another drink in her hand. Taking a seat on the edge of his bed she folds her hands into her lap, looking like a child in the principal’s office, “Where are you going?”

“It’s classified.” He assures her without even looking up.

His movements are almost robotic. The same way he was in Rome with her, until she smacked him around a few times. Even then, he was still a little stiff with his movements. Licking over her bottom lip she reached over and into his suitcase, pulling out the little envelope he had stuffed down inside of the edge of the satin seam, “What’s this then?”

Illya glances up just in time to see her pulling out the card with his handler’s number on it. A jolt of uneasiness goes through him and he quickly reaches over to pluck it out of her hand, “Is nothing for you.”

“Illya! How are you going to ever trust me if you don’t tell me things?” Her words are only slightly slurred, but not enough for anyone to notice as she bats her thick lashes up at him, pretending to plead with him.

“I have mission for Berlin.” It’s all he tells her but he can see the way she instantly straightens her spine. Gaby does not talk about Berlin. If the subject ever comes up, she is first to speak up about the place, announcing to everyone that she will never go back.

“Oh,” She breathes out the word so carefully and then turns her head back up to look at him carefully. Gaby’s gaze locks with his and he feels a bit of guilt welling up in the pit of his stomach like he’s swallowed a ball of lead. After a moment of silence she speaks again, this time kicking her heels off as she does so, “What are you doing in West Berlin?”

He has to tear his gaze away from hers now. Quickly picking up the rest of his clothes and pushing them into his suitcase like he is out of sand in the hourglass. Swallowing hard he shakes his head, “Not going there. I have mission for KGB. Top secret.” He throws his hand out to stop the conversation but there’s something about the way she’s looking at him and he feels guilty.

“Illya,” Gaby is standing now, sliding off of the edge of the mattress, “Are you going home?”

She asks him almost in a whisper.

He closes his eyes for a moment, “No.”

“Then tell me.” Gaby stamps her barefoot down on the carpet.

“I have no use in telling you,” He cuts her close with his words, jaw clenching with his lips pressed tightly together. He folds his fingers against his suitcase and knows his knuckles are white. He almost doesn’t want to look at her, but he wants to memorize her face one more time before he leaves. When he does, he knows it’s a mistake because her eyes are shining and she is shaking. Her fingers are moving in front of her and she’s pulling at the ring on her left hand. The bugged one he had given her in Rome. She’s kept it close to her since then, but now she’s pulled it off. It collides with his chest and he reaches a hand up to catch it before it hits the floor.

“You are never going to trust me!” Her words are sharp and cut into his nerves. Before she can lash out and throw something else at him, he steps forward and wraps his fingers around her wrist.

“It is not about trust.” He assures her but his words don’t seem to make a difference to the anger settling over her brow. Illya moves his other hand up and smooths away the wrinkles on her brow, “My mission is to arrest chemist and bring him back to Russia.”

He spills his mission and if anyone were to know, his reputation would be ruined again. All his hard work disgraced, but he does it to erase the anger but all it does is have her yanking out of his grasp. She pulls away and he lets her. The anger is fading but she looks like she’s been electrocuted.

“You’re going to what?” She asks carefully, shaking her dark head up to him like this may be some cruel cosmic joke.

“I am going to arrest a criminal and take him back to Russians.” Illya grounds out the words, knowing she heard him the first time. His blue eyes glance over to the clock by the bedside and he makes a slight face. His flight leaves soon, he has to go now to make his mission.

“You’re going to arrest a man for going over the wall?” Gaby’s question is just a repeat of his words but it still feels like she’s accusing him of something more.

Illya nods his head to her, “It is a crime to leave the wall.”

Gaby’s knees knock together and she looks like she’s going to crash to the ground, but before she can he moves for her only to have her hands come up and hit him. Her palm connects with his cheek and there’s a loud crack that follows it. His cheek burns from her palm but he stands there still as can be while she pulls her hand back. His fingers twitch, counting their familiar tapping but he breathes deep. He doesn’t let his world bleed red. She’s angry with him, angry with his job and he can’t change that for her. He can’t be what she wants him to be outside of missions for U.N.C.L.E. He can not be her doting fiance when they’re meant to be agents.

“Gaby,” He closes his eyes and tries to take a step forward but she is already stepping away from him, collecting her own things as she goes. She practically stuffs her suitcase, wrinkling the fine couture he’s picked out for her.

“No, I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?”

“Not back to Germany. I won’t go, you won’t make me.” She is adamant with her words as she shoves her feet back inside her discarded heels. Her ankles wobble a bit, but she keeps going, moving away from him. She doesn’t stop shaking her head and avoiding his gaze. The ring is still in his palm when his fingers close up into a fist. The little black pearl threatens to break.

“No one is making you go back.” He yells at her now. His anger getting the better of him, pale cheeks flushing red.

Gaby stops in her tracks, almost to the door when she turns to spit back at him, venom sinking into her words as she points her index finger to him. “Not yet, but it won’t be long before you next mission is to take me back. It’s not a crime to want to leave that awful place!”

“It is a crime, he is a criminal and so are you!” The words leave him before he has a chance to take them back, before he can apologize she’s gone. The hotel door opens and slams shut. The sudden movement causing the paintings on the wall to shake and sway. He’s left in an empty hotel room with the images of her dancing in the sundress dashed. The last thing he can remember when he boards the plane is her angry words. They echo around in his mind and haunt him as he sits in his seat, playing with the fake engagement ring. He turns it over and over again in his calloused palm. The tracker inside is still sending a signal only it’s on the wrong person. He frowns at the thought and clenches his fist. The little pearl cracks and then slowly comes apart in his palm, just as she did in the hotel room. When the plane takes off, he closes his eyes and when he wakes up he’s a KGB agent, not a fake fiance and not a man in love with a criminal.


	20. Illya/Gaby - Confinement

**Prompt: Gaby and Illya confined in a small space, barely clothed and it's freezing. Hypothermia is imminent, whatever shall they do for heat?**

 

They’re on a mission in Denmark when it happens. Gaby’s boots hit a hollow spot in the snow and before Illya can grab onto her, she’s gone. She’s tumbling down the bank, crashing through fresh powder, skidding down the side of the hill. She’s a dark form among the white landscape. Their mission was to observe and report while Napoleon went in alone, under the assumption that if things were to go sour, they would extract him. Only things are going in a different direction for the trio. Gaby’s dark form is tumbling down into the snowbank, heading for the edge of hillside that is sinks down into a thick green expanse of tightly compacted evergreens that are weighed down in more snow.

Illya doesn’t have time to stop. He pulls his boots out of their spot and slings his camera and bag across his chest and behind his shoulder as he takes off in a run. He runs along the path she’s created in her path. The snow is thick and the cold is seeping into his clothes and boots. There’s no feeling in his feet and he can’t look away from Gaby, if he looks away from her he may lose her in all this snow. There’s so much snow that by the time Gaby stops, she’s rolled over onto her back. The cold is soaking into her sweater and her breath is coming out in heavy pants. There’s a cloud along her lips and something warm is running down her forehead. Blood slips down the curve of her brow and past her temple, sinking into the snow and turning it a vibrant color.

“Gaby!” Illya risks shouting her name. They’re far enough away from their vantage point that no one should be able to hear him. He makes it down the hillside and she can see him come into the edge of her vision, crashing to his knees. Snow billows up for a moment between the two of them as he leans over her. His gloved hand smoothing over her cheek first. The leather is cold and she tries not to flinch at the touch, watching as his blue gaze rakes over her, lingering on the blood. His mouth is hidden behind a tightly woven scarf but she can see the way his brows are knitting together, the concern crossing over his face.

“I’m fine,” She breathed out carefully, shivering as the cold seeped into her clothing. The edges of her lips are turning and she can’t seem to feel the the tips of her fingers anymore despite the thick gloves. They are a long way from the warm weather of Rome where she first met the Russian man.

“Nyet.” Illya scoffs as he moves his hands down and digs into the snow. He manages to get his arms under her and carefully he hauls her up into his arms. She instantly turns into him, burying her face against his jacket, giving him a better look at the scrape along her forehead. They’re not far from the safehouse.

It’s just up the ridge a few hundred yards out. If he hurries, he can get to her inside the safehouse then he can fix her up. They’re racing time. Growing up in Russia, Illya has seen his fair share of snow. He has seen the beautiful soft storms and he has seen the damage that it does to the human body. Frostbite decays the flesh, but hypothermia is the slow killer of the beautiful winter wonderland. Hauling Gaby into his arms, he tightens his grip on her as he starts his trek for the line of trees down the embankment. After what seems like the longest trek of his life, he makes it to the cabin. It’s small and poorly insulated.

It’s so small, it hardly counts for a cabin. It’s been their home for over a week now while they wait on Solo to give his cue for extraction. The cabin is wood and thin. It’s barely stocked at all but the windows are covered and their supplies are inside. There is a first aid kit and a fireplace that hasn’t been used in probably years. He carefully shifts Gaby against the front of his chest, feeling her fingers slowly uncurling from his jacket. When he glances down at her, her eyes are closed and panic shoots through him.

“Gaby,” He whispers her name, kicking the door to the cabin close behind him and moving for the roll out cot that’s pushed into the corner. He sets Gaby down over the soft bedding and then moves his hands down to the edge of the small mattress. He tugs on the end of it, pulling her to the middle of the room, closer to the fireplace.

Her lips are blue. Her breathing isn’t ragged anymore and Illya knows she’s too cold to take care of herself. Her hair is wet from the snow, sticking to her tan cheeks that are starting to pale out. Illya moves as quickly as possible, striking up a fire with matches from their stakeout kit and throwing whatever kindling he can on it. He grabs an old newspaper from the side table and then moves for a couple pieces of old wood, praying that it isn’t rotted through and through from being kept in a damp abandoned cabin. The fire starts slow. Embers eating away at the newspaper before a bigger spark takes its hold, flame licking up the side of the wood. When that is settled, he starts with her boots.

“I think this is the longest you have ever been quiet.” Illya is teasing her, he needs her to speak to keep her conscious. If she falls asleep with such a low temperature then things could get deadly. His fingers tug on her laces, trying to be gentle as he pulls off her boots and then peels off a wet sock, frowning at the discoloration in her skin. She’s tinged blue and pale purples across her flesh.

“Yes, well, you could have picked a better place.” Gaby huffs, but her voice is soft and faint but he knows she’s teasing him back over the state of the cabin. It’s definitely not a chic hotel in Rome. Her eyes keep fluttering shut, like she’s fighting to stay awake.

He pulls off her next sock and lays it close to the fire before he slides his own gloves off and carefully presses his hands over her feet. She is freezing to the touch and it alarms him. His palms smooth over the front of her feet, fingers wrapping around her ankles. Her pants are soaked, her skin is cold and clammy. The fire isn’t warm enough to help just yet. Reaching up, he pulls off his hat and tosses it close to her socks, raking his fingers through his meticulously combed hair, knowing what he has to do. The blood rushes to his face, tinge his cheeks red for just a moment and he looks away from her, only to remember they don’t have time for this.

Moving close to her side, he leans over and presses his lips against her forehead, “Forgive me, yes?” He asks closing his eyes for a moment. She shifts her head up for a moment and then settles back down. There’s a chance she can’t hear him, or even understand him but things have to be done. The clothes have to go. He asks now for her to forgive him, because he’s not certain if he can stop his fingers from getting lost this time.

Her bangs are wet, her lashes are wet and her skin is cold under his lips. He doesn’t have anymore time to waste. With careful hands he reaches up and starts untying the sash around her expensive coat before going to the buttons. The wool coat is ruined, soaked through and through. For once he is happy she is so small, it makes her easy to lift. His hand smooths over her back and he peels the coat away. He holds her up and against his chest as he pulls away her hat and scarf next. Then come the thick pants. Every layer she’s wearing is damp. Her skin is blue and pale, she’s shivering and her skin is decorated in goose flesh. Gaby’s lips are trembling, she’s cold and her eyes are shut. No matter how many times he runs his hands up and down her arms, nothing seems to happen. He leaves her lingerie on. He doesn’t have the strength to pull that away just yet.

If Napoleon were here, he could do it, but Illya wouldn’t go that far yet.

Illya’s hand captures hers as he lays her back down on the rollout sleeping pack and he tries to rub at the tip of her fingers, making the blood flow again. The edges of her fingernails are blue. She’s too cold to open her eyes and look at him and the fire isn’t even close enough to warm the room. Illya draws the wool blankets over her, looking around for anymore insulation. He doesn’t have much but his own jacket and it’s too wet to even think about snuggling under.

He knows plenty of other tricks to get them out situations like these. Pulling away from her he stands and takes off his jacket next. He shrugs it off and throws it to the ground behind him before pulling off his own boots. He kicks them aside and peels off his socks next. Eventually he’s down to nothing but his underwear and his stomach is seizing up just thinking of what he has to do next.

She’s still wearing the ring.

The little black pearl is on a gold chain across her neck and no matter how cold she is, he doesn’t remove it from her. It looks good against her collarbone, settling in against her flesh, reminding him that he can always find her. After a moment of collecting his courage, the KGB agent makes his move. Illya moves to his knees first and takes a deep breath, hesitating for a moment before he pulls the thick wool covers back and settles himself in next to the small woman. He’s much warmer than she is and that draws her into him. Gaby instantly rolls to face him, her hands folded between them, cold and she’s shaking.

He’s never felt so much of her skin before in his life. Mapping out all her dips and curves is becoming a forceful thought. He wants to let his fingers explore pieces of her, to take in every inch of the masterpiece that is Gaby Teller.

Illya draws both arms around her smaller form and his palms slide over her mostly naked back. She’s cold but leaning into his touch. Her eyes are still closed and she mutters something in German against his chest and he wonders for a moment how she got so close to him. Her lips ghost over his clavicle as she speaks and he turns his blonde head down, burying his nose in the crown of her slightly damp hair. She smells like a mix of wildflowers and snow. That sharp winter smell has settled into her skin. They’ve been on this mission way too long and it’s only a matter of time before it hurts one of them.

He tightens his arms around her. He doesn’t want her to be the one hurt. When she shivers again, he wraps a leg around hers and Gaby folds into him perfectly. She molds to his side like an old broken puzzle piece, long forgotten from it’s original box. Somehow she fits right against him with his hands smoothing back and forth over her back. His fingers draw circles over the expanse of her back and down along the dip of her spine. She shivers and he wonders if it’s from the cold or his touch.

He chalks it up to the cold because when she kisses the edge of his shoulder, it’s cold, but his veins light up with fire.

Her forehead is still bleeding.

It’s nothing serious but he needs to take care of it. Wrapping an arm around her, he pulls her in close to his chest and keeps her against him as he moves to reach for the medical pack. Illya’s fingers stretch out as far as he can manage and he pulls on the edge of the strap, managing to pull it in close. He all but dumps it out with one hand, pulling out gauze and one of those antibacterial wipes.

He’s more worried about warming Gaby than her superficial wound, but he knows she’ll panic when she sees the blood if he doesn’t take care of it right away. Carefully laying her down, he keeps a hand under her dark head and goes to work, opening the antibacterial wipe with the edge of his teeth and then pulling it out as he throws the wrapper aside and dabs at her forehead. She winces and he knows she’s somewhat conscious. Illya’s calloused fingers smooth over the cut carefully and move down, wiping up the small trail of blood the best he can before he smoothers the wound with a bandage. Pushing the supplies aside, he lets his fingers trail through her hair, letting the locks of hair run like streams between his fingers. Her hair is damp and cool, but her heartbeat is no longer dangerously low. He can see the pulse jump under her skin when his thumb slide along the column of her tan throat.

“Chop shop girl,” He breathes softly as his fingers drag down to the little gold chain along her throat. He fingers the edge of the jewelry and slides down against the roll out. He keeps as much skin contact between them as possible. He wants to keep her warm while the fire builds. He doesn’t want her to slip into hypothermia. He doesn’t want to risk losing her, not like this. Not with blue lips, not without her fighting. Gaby is a fighter and he knows she won’t let death take her so easily. So, instead he strokes down the column of her throat and curls around her like he can protect her from the rest of the world. Despite the wool blanket being short, he manages to keep curled around her enough for warmth. Her chest is pressed into his and she’s looking up at him now. Brown eyes tracing the line of his jaw before he looks down at her.

She no longer looks blue.

The color is returning to her.

Relief floods through his system before he can manage to ask her how she feels, Gaby is up on her elbow and kissing him. The tip of her nose is cold when it brushes his but, Illya ignores it all. The kiss is hot and that’s all that matters. They’ll be warm in no time, with his fingers stroking down her cool cheeks and then down over the lines of her shoulders. His fingers draw small circles and patterns along her skin and somewhere behind them the fire kicks up.

Any thoughts of hypothermia setting in are gone.


	21. Illya/Gaby - Human Stepladder

**Prompt: Can you do a story for Gaby using Illya as a ladder on a mission?**

 

“No!”

Illya’s accent cut through the air sharply as he shook his blond head in the direction of his comrade. He narrowed his gaze just enough to get his point across, but it didn’t seem to work because the small woman was advancing on him. Gaby invaded his personal space with little to no attention paid to his clear distaste for her idea. Instead she reached up and gripped her fingers in his coat tugging him down just a bit. He lurched forward with her pulling, his nose close to her own as she turned her head up and tilted it just enough to peer up at him through her thick lashes.

“Yes,” She insisted with her teeth clenched, hissing the word out at him before she moved a foot up and kicked his shin. Her pointed shoe hit right against the bone and Illya sucked in a sharp breath, holding back his temper as he leaned down just a bit more. Her foot came up and she mashed the sole of her shoe against his dress pants, climbing up the front of him.

They were standing on a side street in Paris. There was almost no moonlight out and nothing but stars in the sky, but Gaby was determined to get a view over the wall that separated them from their mark. Her heel caught on his shirt and he moved his hands up, giving in to her demands and helping her up. Illya’s palms smoothed down her legs, ignoring the way her skin warmed against his palms and the flush that was coming over his pale features. He pushed her up higher and she laid her knee against his shoulder before using him as a ladder and climbing up to the edge of the brick wall. He averted his eyes from the slit in her dress that was giving the world a view of a very long and tan leg.

“This is not practical.” Illya muttered under his breath just as her foot hit the side of his head for a moment, messing up his perfectly styled hair.

“Oh be quiet!” Gaby shot back at him as she all but pushed off his shoulders and scrambled up on to the wall, reaching her hand down. For a moment Illya stared at her open palm in the dark and hesitated. He wanted to reach up and take her fingers, lace his along hers and tug her down from the wall. He didn’t want he to fall, she was out of his reach up so high on the wall. Gaby cleared her throat and wiggled her fingers impatiently in front of his face, “Illya, your camera.”

Reality snapped back in the KGB agent as he reached up and pulled the camera off from around his neck and carefully slid it into her open hand. His fingers brushed hers and they both felt the static rush between them as her hand lingered for a minute too long. Slowly Illya pulled away first and Gaby straightened up from her new position on the wall, dragging the camera up to her face. She adjusted the lens carefully and sank her teeth low into her bottom lip, focusing on the mission once more.

“Do you see anything?” Illya asked after a few minutes of silence. Gaby adjusted the lens once more and nodded carefully as she pulled the camera away and looped it around her neck for safekeeping. Swinging herself around she let her legs dangle on the edge of the wall and crooked her finger for Illya to move closer to her.

“The Baron is on the move and it looks like he has a cargo truck following. We should go, warn Solo that the drop is happening early.” Her words are low and serious as he moves with her beckoning. Carefully Gaby moves a foot out and catches his shoulder. Illya doesn’t hesitate this time. He moves his hands up and grabs gently onto her sides, pulling her down from her perch on the tall wall. Her legs skim the front of his chest and then her toes touch back down. Gaby is safely back on the ground, but his hands don’t leave her sides. They linger again for a minute too long and it’s Gaby who pulls away first, escaping his hold and turning her back to him, “We should go.”


	22. Illya/Gaby - The Calming Hands

**Prompt: could you please write something where illya gets into a brawl unrelated to gaby, but she still helps him to calm down mentally and physically afterwards - TW: Blood , TW: Violence!**

 

Illya’s knuckles are bloody when they strike the Italian man across the face. He no longer feels the pain vibrating up his arms, he only has adrenaline pushing him on. The world around him is a high pitched whine, blurring out everything. The color red rushes over all he sees and everything goes into that next punch. There’s the unmistakable sound of bones breaking when the man hits the floor with the rest of his group. There are at least four other men, all barely breathing with bloody faces plastered to the ground. They’re all alive.

Barely.

His anger is finished though, he reaches for a bar stool to break off on their backs when a hand grabs a hold of his arm and Illya doesn’t hesitate, he goes right back into the red haze, grasping on to the hand and twisting. Solo’s voice doesn’t register through his spell. Nor does Gaby’s scream.

It isn’t until smaller hands are grabbing on to his that things begin to snap back into place. Slowly pieces of the world come back into focus. The color red slowly ebbs away, showing him a dark bar room covered in broken glass and nazi sympathizers sprawled out on the floor. The Russian man’s gaze moves from the men on the floor to his partners, Solo holding onto his wounded arm, leaning back against a broken bar and Gaby. Gaby is holding his wrists. Both of them are in the palms of her smaller hands and she’s squeezing him so hard, her nails are biting through his flesh. It’s a soft sting that he ignores, feeling the coolness of her palms against his hot skin. She’s speaking to him but he can’t hear her just yet. He can only see her lips moving, forming the words as she stares up at him in earnest. Her brown eyes are searching his face, looking for something that she’ll never find.

Gaby’s fingers ease up their grip on his wrists only to slip down to his palms where she forces his hands to unclench. She lets her fingers run the lengths of his own, still speaking to him. Whatever she’s saying must be on repeat, because he can see her lips forming the same words over and over again as her fingertips stroke the back of his bloody knuckles. His blood smears over the pads of her fingers and Illya feels his breathing slowly. His heart rate eases as she steps in closer to him. He has a strange sense of comfort settling in over him. The world slows down and the loud ringing slowly fades away as Gaby’s voice replaces it.

Then before he can react to her soft singing, she’s pushing him. For such a tall man, he moves easily for her. Still stunned from his fight, Illya lets her move him back several paces into the bathroom at the end of the bar, “Solo, keep watch. Make sure we are still alone.” Gaby orders with her dark head turning over her shoulder, speaking to the man cradling his arm.

Napoleon simply nods to her, they’re still on a mission, the stakes are still high and right now the deck is stacked against them. Gaby pushes him through the bathroom door and Illya gets one look at himself in the mirror and feels his muscles seize. His face is covered in flecks of sticky red blood and his bottom lip is split. There’s a bruise forming on his left eye and his expensive suit is torn, splashed in alcohol and blood. He looks like a little boy with wide blue eyes and unshed tears as Gaby reaches up and takes his hat away, messing up his meticulous hairstyle.

Gaby throws his hat down on the counter and instantly goes for the paper towels off to the side. She grabs handfuls of them before turning on the sink and letting the water run over them only to pull them back and motion to Illya. “Come here,” She gestures softly, fingers dripping with cold water and a soft tone echoing over his ears.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. It’s a moment too long for Gaby as she rolls her eyes and moves for him. He jerks his head back the moment the wet towel touches his tender lip but Gaby is relentless. She starts carefully, dabbing at the edge of his mouth, taking away the physical evidence of him losing his temper. It’s not the first time he’s done this, but this is the worst one he’s had.

“See,” Gaby whispers quietly. She’s standing on the edge of her toes, wet towel sliding over his sharp jawline, “It’s okay, it’s all going away.”

Illya swallows hard, his hands forming fists and pulling the broken skin along his knuckles. He tries not to hiss out at the pain, flinching just enough to catch Gaby’s attention as she moves back from him and grabs a new handful of paper towels. She wets them again and repeats the process of cleaning him up. A soft hum leaves her lips and it turns into a song.

One in her mother tongue.

 

A German lullaby leaves her to soothe him and it works. Slowly he relaxes against her, eventually slumping down until his forehead is pressed against her shoulder. Illya inhales the sharp scent of motor oil and wildflowers before he turns and buries his nose against the crook of her neck and this is as much of a breakdown as he allows as she keeps up her lullaby. She holds onto him until he needs her let go, until all the red in his world fades away. He’ll apologize to Solo later, but right now he only needs Gaby and she gives him just that.


	23. AU - Sense8

**Prompt: Ah, thank you! In that case, imagine Illya and Gaby as sensates.**

 

The first time she saw him, she had been in the bathroom.

Things got awkward and someone broke a mirror.

Well, Gaby had broken the mirror after turning to see a towering man in the reflection that should have been her. He had stared at her with confusion in his blue eyes, brows pulled forward and lips quirked up. She had thankfully been wrapped in her robe, hair still damp from her shower, but when she saw him the serenity from her morning routine had been ruined. A scream ripped from her throat and then he shouted something in Russian and when she looked behind her, there was no one. Picking up the hair dryer, she threw it at the glass and it shattered. Pieces of glass went everywhere but the man was gone.

Her heart was stuttering around in her chest, fingers shaking and lips quivering, the shock of it all weighing her down. Gaby had quickly fallen to her knees along the glass, brown gaze flicking about her bathroom, searching for an intruder but he was gone. The man in the mirror was gone. She was going crazy. Too much time spent behind the wall. She had allowed herself to relax too much in the shadow of East Germany. Reaching up, the small mechanic rubbed at the edge of her eyes, pushing away damp bangs as she shook her head gently, “I am going mad.” She whispered the words to herself, “All because that Englishman decided to remind me I have a father.”

She spit the last bit of those words out, ignoring the memory of a man named Waverly showing up at her door, giving her a picture of her father, asking him to help her. Helping him was treason. People died in East Berlin for lesser reasons, but treason would definitely get her strung up on a hanging rope. Picking herself up off of the floor, Gaby got back to work. She dressed in her usual blue suit, name patch and all. The back of it advertised ‘best hands in Germany’ but she knew good and well, the garage she worked at was nothing spectacular. Business had gotten progressively slower as the wall went up and expanded. Less and less people with money to spend on fixing their automobiles, meaning more and more downtime for Gaby to think about the Englishman and his stupid proposition.

Making her way into the shop, she tied her hair back with a piece of red fabric and got to work on the car she had been working on for a few weeks now. The garage had received it as an impound but Gaby had won the papers for it in a poker game, officially making the beautiful car hers. Only she couldn’t drive it out of East Berlin no matter how much torque she added to the engine. The radio crackled on in the background, playing a soft song that was meant for couples to dance to. The kind of music that should play at fancy hotels and restaurants to make the lovers dance. Her hips moved carefully, lips moving along to the words as she reached under the hood of the car. Her arm practically vanishing under the manifold of the heavy engine. Grease coated her fingers, smeared across her forearm as she sang along.

Her words echoed against the hood of the car. The smell of rubber and burning oil filling her senses as she stood on her tiptoes, leaning into the car, practically swallowed whole by it, when another voice hit her ears.

Someone else was singing along.

Her brows pulled together slowly as she kept up her own singing. She could hear someone elses voice covering her own. Like they were right behind her. A low sounding voice, male and obviously not German judging by the accent that was tacked on. Gaby quickly stopped singing and slid out from the hood, turning on her heel to glare at any of her fellow co-mechanics making fun of her. Only no one was there. The singing remained though, right next to her as if a ghost was haunting her.

The radio carried on with the song and when she turned to look back at her car, it was gone.

She wasn’t in the garage anymore. Her lips parted, humming the song still that seemed to be carrying on as she took in the sight of a standard issue hotel room. A man was cleaning a gun. Not just any man, the blond man from her bathroom. Gaby’s humming slowly faded, but she could hear the song clear as day, leaving the man’s lips as he meticulously worked on his weapon. He was Russian, KGB to be exact. His uniform was well pressed hanging by the closet door, and when she stepped forward, she felt the soft carpet of the hotel room not the hard floor of the garage. Confusion rang through her, as she looked around and stepped closer to the man at the table, his radio not even on, but the song he was singing had been the same one she had sang just minutes ago in her garage.

Her garage.

It was gone.

Gaby turned around again, expecting to see her car back but there was nothing but more of a hotel room. A well made bed, a full decanter of alcohol not far from the cabinet to the far left. Everything was so neat and clean, a little bit of sun shining through the open window. When she glanced out the window, she could see her garage from there.

Gaby turned once more, the song starting to come back to her, humming with the blond man’s words before he glanced up and saw her. His gun was in pieces but he stood quickly, the chair falling behind him and clattering to the ground as he accused her quickly with an index finger pointed her way, “You!” He shouted in Russian, but she somehow understood it. Her mind translated it for her without a day of lessons.

“You!” Gaby shouted back. He stood so tall, using his long legs to step forward.

“How did you get in here?”

“How did I get in here is what I want to know!” Gaby shouted, confusion sinking in as she glanced down at the table he had been sitting at. There were files carefully spread out, photos too. A photo of an american man with dark hair and then a photo of a young woman with dark hair– her. A photo of her was on his table, “Why do you have my photo?”

“You’re photo? You still have not answered me, KGB. Answer me or I take you in. Mission or not!”

“Mission?” Gaby took a small step back, “You were singing that song. You’re in my garage right now!” She shook her head as she spoke, feeling a sense of madness sink in.

“No, you are in my hotel room now.” The man shook his head and took another brazen step forward but Gaby quickly backed away from him, turning on her heel to run only when she went for the door and opened it, she was back in her garage. The song on the radio was over, a new one had taken it’s place, drowning out the sounds of heavy metal scraping against well worn tools.

Gaby’s heart was racing and she had unshed tears pooling in her eyes and when she spun around on her heel, there was nothing but her garage. The man wasn’t there, there was no hotel room. Nothing was out of the ordinary in her world, except for the fact she was losing her mind. Gaby reached up and raked her fingers through her hair, messing up her bun that much more before she got back to work.

Illya turned when the woman did to follow her out the door, chase her, but when he got to the door, she was gone. Vanished into thin air with nothing but mechanic’s grease left behind on the door. His larger hand moved over the wood, covering the small handprint with his own. She had left dirty footprints on the carpet too. She had been there. He wasn’t going insane. She had been in his bathroom this morning too. All tan skin and matted down brown hair, with those wide eyes staring back at him in his own mirror. He had been shaving carefully, blade against his cheek when he looked up and saw her there, watching him like something on those moving pictures on the silver screen. Only when he had gone to reach for the woman she had screamed and when he winced to look away, she was gone.

His life was suddenly getting more and more complicated. The further he rose through the KGB ranks the more and more his mind seemed to be disconnected. He had received images of Gaby Teller weeks ago. Her file was thin, her life was nothing special but she was something special to the KGB and that’s all that mattered. She was to be retrieved but since getting that photo of her, she had been burned into his thoughts and now he was hallucinating.

Only hallucinations didn’t leave behind greasy hand prints.

The next time he sees her, he’s sleeping. It’s been weeks since he saw her.

Well, he is warm in his bed, ready for the mission tomorrow. He’s to watch an American, one that intelligence is certain is after the mechanic. His mission shifts from Miss Teller to Napoleon Solo, and as he lays in bed, sleep gets him but not for long. What feels like his bed is no more and suddenly the cool German air is getting to him. He passes through one alley after another. There are hardly any streetlamps on, it’s well past curfew and Gaby is trying to keep herself under control. She’s late leaving the garage which is nothing new, but she’s passing through unsafe alleyways.

Her small dancer feet are quick against the sidewalk, coat pulled tightly around her small form and her head is down so not to attract any unwanted attention. She feels like she’s being followed, but when she turns there’s no one there and Illya is greeted with the sight of darkness swallowing up the winding alleyways. Gaby quickly picked up her pace and cut across another abandoned street before she ran into the first shadow. A man was curled against the inside of an East Berlin business, his skin wrinkled and dirty, the smell of liquor on him as he shouted at her. Fear picked up along Gaby’s skin, raising the hair on the back of her neck. The feeling rang throughout Illya’s bones but there was no way he was out of bed. He had to still be in bed.

Gaby ran across another road and cut through a back entrance just a group of drunken men stumbled out. They were singing offkey and out of sync, swinging and swaying on their feet. They shouted something at her as she passed but Gaby ignored them, keeping her head down. Only she didn’t get very far. One of the men reached out and grabbed her. The hand swallowed up her forearm and twisted her back.

Instinct kicked in and Illya grabbed a hold of the man’s hand. He was no longer in bed, he was in a back alleyway of East Berlin and in a fight. Illya’s fingers tightened over the drunk man’s hand and he pulled it off of his arm, dragging his own backwards and twisting it. The man cried out, trying to yank away but Illya was stronger than he was. One of his friends struck out, hitting him, but Illya fought back. He yanked on the one man’s arm until the joint came free of his shoulder before moving to the second man. A quick punch to the shoulder and a second hit to the throat had the man on his knees while his other friend cradled his arm, shouting out in a drunken slur. The last man of the little group was a little bigger, the smell of vodka thick over his washed out clothing and cut up face. His face looked scarred and ragged in the dim light of the street but it didn’t stop him from rushing forward. The German man moved forward and threw a fist out, well practiced and uniformed, only slightly sloppy from the drink. Illya jerked his head to the left to avoid collision and reached up. He grabbed on to the man’s arm with both of his hands and pulled it down at the right angle. There was a loud crack and then Illya moved his elbow up and over the man’s shoulder, smashing it into his face. There was a rush of blood from the man’s nose and he crumpled quickly to the ground, passing out.

Breathing hard, Illya backed up from the three men all in agony, all shouting at him and when he glanced up at the window to one of the shops, he didn’t see himself. He saw the little mechanic woman standing there, looking shocked, blood on her elbow.

“Who are you?” Gaby asked, voice small and quivering as the fear slowly ebbed away from her face.

“Illya,” He didn’t have another answer for her. He didn’t know how to explain being there without actually being there. He didn’t have any reason for this, this was madness. He was going insane. He was going to be sent back to Russia, sent to an institution where they would let electricity course through his veins, he would be a laughing stock like his father. A shameful shadow would be cast even wider over his family and all hope he had for a brighter future with his motherland would be gone.

“Thank you,” Gaby whispered the words out carefully, not looking away from the reflection in the store window. If she looked away, he would vanish.

“Is nothing, they had soft bones.” He shook his blond head, feeling crazy by talking to the smaller woman, with the beautiful wide eyes and determined brow.

“How are you here?”

“I don’t know.” Illya answered her honestly, “I am sleeping, I think. Or maybe I am sleepwalking, yes?”

Gaby shook her head carefully as she stepped forward towards the window, “What are we?”

“I don’t know.” He whispered the words as she drew closer to the window, her breath fogging up the glass as she felt her feet carry her there all on their own. He watched her hand move up and cover the glass, the reflection touched back, his hand covered over where hers was and before she could speak to him again, the phone rang.

Illya’s eyes jerked open and his lungs quickly expanded, making him sit up in bed. A sharp gasp leaving his lips as he glanced around his dark hotel room. The phone next to his bed rang again, snapping him out of his stupor. He quickly answered it, “Kuryakin,” His voice rough with sleep but when he looked over his pajamas he could see the red stain of blood over his sleeve. Panic settled into his chest, distracting him enough he almost missed the voice on the other side of the line. His mission was starting. He was to retrieve the Teller woman tonight.

“Understood.” Illya licked over his bottom lip and nodded as if the man on the other side of the phone could see him before he hung up. It was time to go to work and no delusions could stop him from pulling the trigger tonight.


	24. Illya/Gaby - Fortune Teller Tells All

**Prompt: Illya unwillingly gets his fortune read but is secretly very intrigued by and invested in what he hears.**

 

“It’s a circus, please!” Gaby’s hands are clasped together and her bottom lip is poked out a bit. She’s pleading with both of her boys. After a long mission they’re back in London and the weather has finally given them a break from the constant rain of Panama. The night in the city is clear and the sounds of the circus are not far from their U.N.C.L.E. safehouse, falling through the open window, enticing anyone and everyone around to come join the fun. It’s Gaby who makes the suggestion first and then starts to push the idea, one tumbler of whiskey at a time.

“Why do we need to go?” Illya is tired. There are dark circles under his blue eyes and his meticulous blond hair is slightly mused, there’s blood on his shirt but Gaby’s almost certain it’s not his.

“It’s just a circus Peril,” Napoleon swings in for the save and Gaby knows it’s only a matter now of pushing their giant Russian comrade out the door. The American sat up a little straighter on the couch, folding his newspaper down to look at the two of them. Gaby’s standing on the tips of her toes, fingers playing with the fake engagement ring around her neck and looking quite pleased with his answer. After a brief moment or two, the Russian man gives in and all his defenses crumble at the tremble of the mechanic’s bottom lip. He’s rendered useless after such a pout and when his shoulders sag, Gaby cheers. Her hands are thrown in the air before she lets out a soft squeal of delight and before anyone can move, she’s already making a beeline for the closet. Her shoes are on before Napoleon can shrug on his own jacket, her excitement practically filling the room.

Illya’s hands find Gaby’s coat first and he holds it open for her, allowing her to step in as she puts an arm in each sleeve. His arms cross in front of her for a moment, hooking a button of her coat close in front of him. His nose brushes along the top of her hair, and for a moment since Rome they’re close. Gaby tilts her head back ever so slightly and he has a vision of burying his face in her neck and begging her to stay with him to push away the exhaustion of the last mission. Napoleon clears his throat and breaks the spell between them. The vision of the two of them is instantly gone and Illya pulled his hands free from her jacket before grabbing his own and tugging it on before putting his hat on and making a gesture to the door.

The smell of spun sugar is overwhelming the further they get into the crowd. Silver tickets are tucked into his jacket pocket and Gaby is leaning on his arm with her own small bag of popped corn. Lights are strung up along make-shift paths and tents are raised everywhere. Red and white stripes practically make the city of London vanish behind tall peaks and there’s a sound of a wild animal roaring somewhere in the chaos of it all. Of course with his comrades lost in the magic of it all, Illya is still unconvinced to relax. His blue eyes are sharp and skating across the crowds, looking for anything out of place. Nothing jumps out, no assassins, no KGB agents watching him. He is safe in the crowd, but his guard never falters. He is in a constant state of paranoia, it’s how he’s survived so long in a world of wolves.

Napoleon leaves them in pursuit of a young acrobat and Gaby’s hand slips from the bend of his elbow, snatching his attention for a moment. He watches her hand slide away from his sleeve and then her back is to him as she moves for a beautifully painted sign next to one of the tents. The sign is well worn and painted in several shades of silver and blues, advertising a psychic reading.

A crescent moon dots the end of the sign and Gaby turns towards him, brown eyes wide, “We should do this next!”

“This is a sham.” Illya informs her, “There is no such thing as psychics.” He clicks his tongue at the notion she would believe such an occupation would exists. “They steal money.”

Her bright smile slowly falters. The spark leaves her brown eyes and her shoulders sag for just a fraction of a second, he can’t stand to see her frown. Illya moves a hand up onto her shoulder, fingers catching a small curl of her dark hair. He lets his index finger slide around the curl before letting go, “But for you, we will investigate.”

The smile is back and she nods, pulling away from him and moving her hands into the tent before he can even object. She splits the curtains apart with two of her calloused hands and exposes the dim candlelight to the outside world before a gruff voice tells them to enter. Gaby glances over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow towards Illya, “C’mon,” She mouths the word to him, lips twitching up into a playful smirk before she enters the tent.

Sucking in a deep breath, Illya glances around one final time before following the small mechanic into the tent. The smell of incense is heavy, assaulting his nose before the fabric behind them closes and the candles burn a little brighter. In the tent there is red and violet colored velvet everywhere, along with candles. There’s melted wax all over the ground and a table in the center of it all, with an older woman sitting behind it. Her hair is a shock of white and hands wrinkled but working cards with quick diligence. She’s shuffling cards that look longer and wider than normal playing cards and there’s of course a crystal ball in the middle of it all.

Gaby moves to take a seat but the old woman puts out her hand, stopping her. “No, little one. Not you.” The psychic’s voice is gruff and her eyes are still closed. Illya looks over to Gaby who is scowling, brows knitted and frown settling over her lips. The old woman cracks open one eye and glares to Illya, “You. You have a future worth reading. Come closer.”

The psychic crooks a gnarled finger at him and Illya hesitates, looking at Gaby. Gaby is still scowling but she moves away from the table and Illya slowly moves closer to the table. The fortune teller gestures again, and Illya moves carefully onto his knees before taking a seat on an overstuffed velvet pillow. His legs are too long to fold comfortably, but he manages to sit at the table as the woman instantly lets go of the cards. She ceases all forms of shuffling, dropping them haphazardly in a small pile before holding out her hands. “Give me your hands!” She instructs him in an over dramatic tone. He doesn’t want to move, but the woman gives him an impatient snap of her fingers and Gaby makes a noise behind him. Illya sighs and gives in. He stretches his arms across the table, where the circus woman instantly snaps at him like a starving woman. Her old hands wrap around his wrists and she yanks him in, dragging his palm up to her faded blue eyes. She squints at his palm, tilting it left and right to get different views of his thick callouses. He wonders vaguely if she can see all of the times he’s pulled the trigger etched into his skin. Maybe she can see every time he’s drawn his knife or killed a man. Each line reveals himself to her in an intimate way he isn’t so sure he wants her to see.

“You’re going to live a long life.” She instantly says, lips drawing back over yellowed teeth. He wants to pull his hand away and laugh, KGB men like him do not live long lives. They do not live happy, long lives. They fulfill a destiny for their country, bring honor and then die young. This woman is a fraud.

“That is not possible,” Illya informs her with his accent thick on his words. The fortune teller is not pushed at all by his words. Instead she keeps his hand in hers, fingers digging a little more on his skin. Her eyes are skating the lines along his hand, over and over in the same pattern. He’s watching her, acutely aware of Gaby lingering in the background.

She tilts his hand again, “And you will have a great love.” She drawls out the words making everything feel serious.

The room goes dead still and he wonders if this is some parlor trick of hers. Her white hair falls across her face as her lips twist up into an ominus smile, “A good love. A great one. Forbidden. The best kind always are.” She pats his hand turning it more towards a pillar candle that is dipped in all kinds of blues. The light flickers across the old woman’s face.

With her declaration of his love life, Illya pulls his hand away and scowls. “That is definitely not possible.” He informs her and digs into his pocket. He fishes around for a moment and pulls out a few pounds, tossing them down onto the table. They spill across the velvet cloth and Illya pushes away from the table. He all but storms out of the tent, grabbing a hold of Gaby’s elbow and gently leading her out. He fights with the flaps of the canvas before they make it out once more into the night’s air. The smell of incense fades and Gaby is protesting his pulling. Her heels dig into the ground for a moment.

“Illya, what is the matter!” She shouts it more as a statement than a question towards him, yanking her arm away from his grip.

“Fortune teller is a fraud. We can do much more enjoyable things than waste money on her.” He scoffs and plants his hands inside of his jacket, sinking down a bit against his shoulders, frowning lightly. His hands still burn where the psychic touched him.

After a moment or so of silence, Gaby exhales and throws her hands up, “Fine, but before we leave, I want some sweets to take back home.”

Illya nods towards her, giving into her small plea so long as she doesn’t bring up fortune tellers or any other sideshow attractions the circus has to offer. They move back along the winding paths of the circus, in and out of the crowd, he leads her around with a small hand on her back, pushing her towards a booth for homemade fudge. Illya slips a few bills into Gaby’s hand to pay while he lingers back from the crowd, scanning once more for potential danger before he looks back at his hands. His blue eyes trace the same lines the fortune teller had. He turns his hand over trying to see anything she saw, any sign of this forbidden love. A soft voice calls to him across the sea of faces and Illya’s gaze tears from his palm to the small German woman in the crowd. She is smiling to him and holding her hands up. They’re filled with sweets and he finds himself mirroring her smile, forgetting his hand and the lines etched into them.

“Let’s go Chop Shop Girl. We have to find Cowboy and get him home before the circus adopts him.”


	25. Illya/Gaby - Dreaming of Little Ones

**Prompt: Gabi portays a pregnant woman for a mission and Illya can't help but make future plans.**

 

Despite the whole cover being a fake, Gaby’s uncomfortable state is very real but it makes her acting that much better as she sits at the table full of criminal masterminds. Her elbows are on the edge of her chair with her small hands on the fake bump under her dress. She’s chatting animatedly with a councilor’s wife, the woman has more stolen jewelry on her than she knows what to do as she reaches over and pats the top of Gaby’s hand. Illya shifts in his chair, leaning back a bit straighter, his ears are missing out on the whole conversation as his eyes land on Gaby’s smile. She’s playing the expectant wife all too well.

Her hands smooth over the fake baby bump under her expensive sundress as she talks about weird cravings, and sips water because alcohol is unacceptable in her fragile state. He watches her practically beam as everyone fawns over her, even their targets fall for the act and Illya can’t help but find himself believing her too. The way she waves her hands in front of her eyes to stop herself from tearing up as someone tells her how beautiful she looks so close to a due date.

“Oh thank you,” She practically lets her voice break as her hormones take over, rubbing a line over her stomach that he knows is fake, but he’s somehow still staring at her. Watching the way her tan cheeks flush when bites back a knowing smile, “My husband and I are just so lucky,” She waves a hand to Illya, reaching for him.

She pulls him from his thoughts for a moment as the tips of her manicured fingers find his calloused ones. He clasps her hand and squeezes it softly, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles, pausing against the black pearl ring on her finger.

“Yes, so lucky. Now, darling,” Illya’s fake English accent is enough to put Solo to shame as he looks at Gaby and then at their targets, sipping their champagne across from them. “If you don’t mind we were talking business.”

He’s trying to get them to let him into their illegal auction. Only it’s more difficult than he had originally planned because Gaby’s fingers aren’t releasing his own. Everyone is more in love with her than him, they are practically fawning over her every move, even when she makes offhanded comments of her back hurting and feet swelling. None of these are true but she plays her part so well, that Illya can’t help but think a list of what ifs. If she’s beautiful now, she’ll be practically a goddess. If of course, if he ever got the nerve to tell her how he felt.

Since Rome they have barely done more than give each other brief glances, small touches here and there. Once he came close to kissing her in Paris. His lips had been centimeters from hers when the gunfire had started, breaking them apart, letting him push her out of harms way and back to the safe house. Their life was a series of ‘what ifs’ and ‘could be’s but they never had the chance to make good of it all.

It didn’t stop Illya from dreaming though.

It didn’t stop him from thinking how it would be to see her in a white dress at the end of an aisle. How beautiful she would look against his pillows, with that thick dark hair of hers spread out over the pillows, lips parted and his name on her tongue.

Gaby shifts in her chair and complains of back pain offhandedly, waving her hand towards Illya, breaking his thoughts of her. She makes a show of getting comfortable and Illya lets go of her fingers and moves his hand over to cover the back of her neck. His fingers gently massage over the skin there as she settles into the feeling of him.

Illya wonders if she’ll be this demanding if they ever get to this moment again. Only the bump under her dress wouldn’t be fake, it would be his child in her and their lives wouldn’t involve lunch with criminal masterminds. Gaby turns her head over and smiles at him in a way a loving wife would. Her smile reaches her warm brown eyes and he knows in that moment he’s lost forever to the little mechanic from East Germany.


	26. Illya/Gaby - Into The Ring

**Prompt: Oh my gosh but imagine Gallya where their mission includes illya going undercover as a boxer in an underground fighting ring, and gaby is undercover as a rich heiress looking to be a sponsor. -- TW: Blood , TW: Violence!!**

 

The first hit is nothing, it’s the second and third jabs that knock his back tooth loose in his mouth. Illya’s mouth fills with the thick copper flavor of blood and he barely is able to spit it out before the next round of hits falls on him. He pulls his hands up like Solo has told him half-a-dozen times or so in training, and it does little to block the seasoned boxer’s hits. The man in front of him is a professional, Illya is amatuer at best, but he’s better than Solo which is why he took the role for the mission. Three more blows are delivered to his upper arms and as soon as his opponent stops to swing, Illya goes in. His footwork is sloppy, but effective enough, propelling him forward to throw his next punch. The man blocks him but, Illya doesn’t stop. He delivers three more blows and then one good solid hit on the man’s temple.

The man sways for a moment before backing up several steps, his weight shifting foot to foot making him sway even wider. His balance is off and Illya knows if he can hit him once more, then the match could be done.

Only before he can move in for the attack, a sharp sound catches his ears. His heartbeat picks up as he glances over his beaten knuckles. He can see Gaby on the other side of the boxing ring rope. She’s draped in couture that Solo has picked out, dripping with diamonds that he has no doubt stole from the hotel heiress a few rooms above them. Her hair is pulled back in soft curls and her lips are painted, twisted up into a soft smirk as she motions to the ring with jeweled fingers.

“I want him.” She says it with confidence, her accent laid on thick for her role. Her lashes flutter as she glances to him once more before turning to face one of the men on the outside of the ring, men in suits more expensive than ones in Illya’s closet. They’re game sharks, throwing matches with illegal gambling. They prey on the rich who like to gamble and that’s exactly what Gaby is giving them. They’re also putting those funds in other illegal means, but that is for after the mission. Right now, Gaby is playing bait while Illya is taking the beating and Solo, Solo is off cracking some safe. He’s too Americanized for the mission, his German accent is sloppy, which leads Gaby to the proverbial lion’s den.

“He is new Madam. New and very expensive. He has great potential.” One of the men states, his blonde hair is messily combed back from his face, where his eyes are too close together and he’s watching Gaby with more interest than the training match taking place.

Gaby rolls her eyes, “I know he has potential. I could see it the moment I stepped into your establishment.” She scoffs and waves another hand in Illya’s direction, not quite looking at him yet. Part of him wants her to look at him and the other half is praying she doesn’t give them away. While he’s so focused on Gaby, he doesn’t see his opponent moving towards him, or the jab that catches him in the temple. The blow is so hard, it knocks him off his stance. Illya falters but doesn’t fall, he straightens up enough to punch back. His vision is bleeding red but he manages to keep his calm as he goes for another set of well practiced jabs. His fists move in a quick repetition before he catches his opponent in the jaw, knocking the man down and out for the count. Blood runs down from the corner of his mouth as he pants, his chest heaving as sweat slips down into his blue eyes. When he looks up, he sees Gaby watching him and her smile becomes something feral as she turns to the businessmen, “I want him. I’ll pay any price you offer, but Gentlemen, please,” Gaby pauses as she reaches up to play with the diamond at her throat, “Note that once I buy something, it is mine and mine alone.”

Illya’s blood runs hot and the two men in suits nod towards her, “Of course Madam, we will draw up the paperwork now for you.”

“Excellent boys, I bet everything on him for tonight. Mark that in your paperwork too.”

—

“They want me to throw the fight.”

Illya’s lips are close to Gaby’s as he leans over the edge of the ring rope. His whisper is hoarse and his vision is swimming from the fight. They are far from the practice ring now. A live fight is going and the clock is ticking against them. Ilya’s face is partially swollen. Blood is running in thin little lines along his temple and Gaby is losing her nerve. Her insides are churning and her worry is becoming more and more evident to everyone around them. Her jeweled fingers move over the thick rope and she reaches up, touching the side of his face gently. Her fingers are cool against his scorching skin and Illya fights the urge to rest against her. He can’t throw the fight and expect the men to let Gaby win. She has no ‘real’ money to pay them if he loses. If he loses they’ll take her where he can’t follow and his mind refuses to think any further of what they may do to her.

“Illya,” Gaby’s voice cracks for a moment, “Solo got stopped at the gate to get in. He couldn’t steal a ticket to the match. It’s just the two of us in here.” She looks around for a moment. The boxing arena is filled with over a hundred or so rich people, all betting their blood-money on the potential winner’s of the illegal fight. Most of them are harmless, but others have body guards and those body guards have weapons.

Gaby’s dress didn’t allow for any weapons. The whole fight was to be won, so Gaby could use the stolen money to move further along into the crime ring. Their plan is crumbling right before their eyes and Illya can barely keep his blue eyes open. He’s sinking further against the rope as Gaby’s fingers slide up through his messy hair, slick with sweat. She’s worried for him, more worried than any heiress should be, showering him with attention. Before Illya can help himself, he’s leaning over the rope. His lips find hers and he gives her a kiss so hard, she loses her breath. The bell sounds and Illya pulls away from her. He’s left blood against her lips as he takes one last look and moves away, “Then I will not lose.”

He goes back into the fight with a sense of urgency in his moves. His gloved hands are up and he’s working harder than he had in any practice round. Gaby’s fingers are pulled away from the rope as one of the referees urges her away, back to her seat but she can’t sit. Her hands are playing with the stolen jewels around her fingers and his name is on the tip of her tongue when the man across from him lands a blow, knocking a tooth free from Illya’s mouth. She swallows the scream as Illya straightens back up and delivers a few more blows. They go round and round until the man hits Illya again, this time knocking him off his feet.

“Illya!” Gaby screams across the boxing ring, her voice high above the sound of blood rushing through his skull. His vision blurs, eyes focusing in and out on the lights around him. He can only register one thing and that’s the little mechanic from East Germany, bouncing on her high heels, yelling at him. She’s yelling for him to get up, not quite pleaing for him, but ordering. She’s back in her role of heiress, ordering him to get up and finish the fight.

One of his gloved hands hits the ring and he pushes himself up, exhaustion and pain ringing out throughout his body, muscles screaming in agony as he makes himself move. Moving is painful but the idea of losing Gaby over his weakness is worst than any physical pain the man across from him can dish out. His fingers twitch in his gloves, the familiar tapping as he makes himself get up. He forces himself up onto his knees and then to his feet. The bell hasn’t rung yet, the match is still on. With every ounce of strength he can muster, Illya forces himself up.

He will not throw the fight. Despite what the men had whispered to him in the locker room prior to the fight, Illya will not give in. Gaby shouts at him again, her orders are clear as day, finish the fight. He thinks of kissing her again. Telling himself if he wins, he’ll kiss her again and then never stop. Illya conjures whatever strength he has left and hits the man once, twice and a third time, catching him under the jaw. His skilled opponent hits the ground and doesn’t get back up.


	27. AU - Arranged Marriage

**Prompt: Illya and Gaby enter an arranged marriage (any AU or time period)**

 

The cigarette in her fingers is shaking. It doesn’t matter how many deep breaths she sucks in, her nerves refuse to calm down. She can feel her insides churning, threatening sharp pains of anxiety, washing over her features. She manages to keep a calm face, lips turning down ever so slightly at the thought of being property. Despite her arguments of a new revolution, her world is not quite ready for that kind of advancement. Her destiny has been decided for her. She is to meet her soon-to-be husband in a matter of minutes. Lifting the small cancer stick to her lips, Gaby takes a long pull and holds it in until her lungs burn. The smoke slowly crawls from her lips before she manages to exhale, clouding the air in front of her with a soft haze. Her eyes burn but she refuses to let herself get emotional before meeting the man she’s supposed to spend the rest of her youth with.

“This is unfair,” Gaby’s voice is razor sharp as she finishes off the last drag and then stamps out the cigarette in the glass tray in front of her. Smoke lingers between her and her Uncle, who is less than impressed with her constant complaints. He is all she has left in the world and he’s practically selling her out of his life. Her parents were taken away by the war, along with the rest of their fortune. A little of it is to be Gaby’s but only until she is married. The estate and its earnings will never touch her hands until she is tied to another, and her Uncle Rudi has made that decision for her already. He’s marrying her off to a supposed wealthy man. A man with business in his background and experience with an estate that almost mirrors Gaby’s own. Uncle Rudi promises that it will be a smart business match. That she doesn’t have to love him. Marriage isn’t about love, he promises her that. All the ballets and theatre works she’s seen are lies. Love is a business arrangement, he assures her of this as he starts his next drink. Expensive amber liquid swirls around in his crystal glass, keeping her attention rather than his words. It doesn’t matter how many times he repeats himself, Gaby doesn’t want this.

This may make her spoiled and rebellious, but she wants her own decisions. She wants to be her own woman. Her Uncle carries on, over and over with his speech of how it’s an honor to have such high standards for a bloodline. All his words do nothing but build the fire in her belly. She could careless of good breeding. Gaby is two seconds away from ordering a drink to calm herself from lighting another cigarette when the butler makes the announcement. Their guests have arrived and it’s customary to meet them standing. Gaby glances at her Uncle with one last silent plea but he ignores her all together, emptying his glass quickly and standing to button his suit coat. Gaby rises and smooths her hands over her dress to push away the wrinkles before following a few steps behind her Uncle to the main entrance. The house is expensive, filled with the latest technology that German engineering has to offer, including a radio that catches more than just the usual four channels. If Gaby turns it on at the right time, she can catch the soft sounds of blues played from a pirated station. Of course now is not the time for music as the main cherry doors open up, spilling sun across the plush carpets and temporarily blinding the small woman before swinging shut.

She expected more than just one man.

Blinking a few times, she allowed her eyes to readjust to the light as the world around her came into focus once again. There stood a single man in her house and he stood very tall. So tall she worried for a moment she would have to invest in taller heels just to be able to get a better look at him with his perfectly combed hair and crisp suit. It didn’t matter how much of a handsome face he had, she wasn’t going to go easy into the marriage. She would fight until the very end of the aisle, she would scream until the priest made her say the damning words, “I do.”

“Thank you for having me this evening.” His accent is heavy, bleeding his words together and Gaby cuts her sharp gaze to her Uncle. He is marrying her off to a Russian man. Her blood boils and she can feel her cheeks heating up. All her Uncle’s speeches of good breeding are spun lies if he is really marrying her off to the man before her. Gaby doesn’t even move when he extends his hand out to her Uncle.

Uncle Rudi steps forward and clasps the man’s hands like they are old friends. Her Uncle is practically beaming as he shakes his hand and turns towards Gaby with a sweeping gesture, “Illya Kuryakin, this is her. This is my Gabriella.”

Gaby hooks her chin upwards, as if judging him like one would a piece of meat at the market. Her Uncle narrows his gaze to her for just a moment and Gaby decides not to push her luck. Instead of saying what she wants, she steps forward and holds her hand out, wanting him to shake it. Only he doesn’t shake it. He does the gentlemanly action of taking her fingers and pulling them up to his lips. He lets his lips skim over the backs of her knuckles before pressing a soft kiss to the back of her hand. The moment he touches her there’s a rush of warmth to her neck and cheeks and Gaby wonders vaguely if this is more anger at his actions or something much more. He is handsome and very polite but the night is young and he still has to survive dinner.

“Forgive me,” Illya nods his head slowly as he carefully releases her hand in a slow manner, almost like he doesn’t want to let her go just yet. “Your Uncle has told me so much about you, but now about how beautiful you are.”

Gaby almost scoffs at his words. She is too short and plank like to be consider beautiful. She is scrawny in areas where most women are blessed with curves. However she manages not to show any of her anger, swallowing it down long enough to make a quick quip in his direction, twisting her lips up into a malicious smirk, “And you are very tall.”

Instead of taking it as anything less than a statement, Illya laughs. It is soft and breathy and Gaby can see the tension slowly leaving his muscles. She wonders vaguely if he was nervous in coming to meet her or if this is just some sort of business transaction. He nods his head slowly and shrugs his shoulders in a careful gesture to show her he is unharmed by her sharp smile.

“That I am.”

“And you are Russian.” Gaby throws it at him as her Uncle begins to step away. She watches him freeze though and turn to look at her. Uncle Rudi is almost glaring at her, silently commanding her to stop being stubborn.

“I am that as well.” Illya does not look ashamed one bit. In fact he looks proud at her words, “I was born in Moscow and I will tell you more over dinner. Shall we?” He bends his arm for her to take his elbow. Gaby’s anger flares and decides silently to herself that she will rattle his nerves before dessert. She keeps her manners though and when he offers up his arm, she takes it. Her hand fits surprisingly well in the bend of his elbow but she ignores this fact as they pass through the sitting room and into the elegant dining room her mother designed when she was younger. It is a soft yellow with blue flowers climbing the walls and thick plush carpet not to mention expensive wood furniture and real silver accents across the table.

Her Uncle makes an excuse halfway through dinner to make a business deal. He excuses himself from the table, letting the staff take away his plate of baked hen and roasted vegetables, leaving just Gaby and Illya to sit in an uncomfortable silence. Her Uncle had done all the talking over dinner. Gaby had yet to say a word.

She stabs at her roasted potato and tears off a small piece. Her stomach is sour and she doesn’t want to eat, but she rather play with her food than deal with her potential future husband. Illya however, refuses to let the silence settle. Something about him is splitting her nerves. It’s almost as if he wants them to be married. As if he doesn’t mind marrying a complete stranger. Like this is just another business deal in his life, Gaby is just one more conquest.

“Your Uncle tells me you were in the school for Ballet, yes?” He asks over the edge of his wine glass. The chef had done an excellent job on the food, pairing it with a bottle of red from the cellar, Gaby wonders if Illya will fire any of the staff when they are married.

She shakes her head, if they are married. She refuses to stop fighting. After a moment or two of silence, she gives into his question, “I did. I left ballet after my parents died in the war.” She doesn’t elaborate, instead focusing on bland facts, “I do not dance much anymore.”

“That is a shame, Gabriella. I do love to dance.” Illya sounds a bit disappointed at her words, but he carries on. Their conversation is strained. She has yet to find anything that makes him laugh again. Not to mention nothing seems to rattle his nerves.

“Gaby.” She corrects him with a sharp click of her tongue in a very un-lady-like way. “Please, my name is Gaby not Gabriella.”

He nods and they carry on.

She learns little bits and pieces of him. How his parents own several pieces of land in Russia, how his father is a wealthy businessman, but how he wanted to leave to travel. Gaby learns he enjoys photography. How anyone can enjoy pointing a camera places, she’ll never know but she nods regardless. He tells her small things, revealing so much and yet nothing at all. She can’t quite figure out the man across from her yet. Their plates are cleared away and dessert is set down but, Gaby can’t seem to eat. Illya barely touches the food as well. Instead of eating he folds his napkin and holds his hand out to her across the table.

“How about you give me a tour of your grounds. We could use the fresh air,” He gives her what she thinks is a reassuring smile, but Gaby doesn’t return it yet. She doesn’t even take his hand. Instead she pushes her own chair back and stands. It is a good idea to clear the room. She would love to stroll alone, but it’s obvious that Illya will not be shaken so easily.

“Yes, I’ll show you my grounds.” She emphasizes on the possessive tone of her grounds. Illya lets her lead him out of the dining room, through several of the winding halls until they’re back to the front of the sprawling house. A staff member opens the front door for her and the two of them step out. Illya moves to offer his arm for her once again, but Gaby ignores it once again. Instead she picks up the edges of her white dress and steps down out of the house. Her shoes touch down on smooth steps until she’s on soft pebbles that line the walk of the estate.

Illya towers above her but keeps his pace slow so as to keep himself next to her. The silence stretches between them, and Gaby know’s he’s looking at her and not actually ahead to where they’re walking. After another moment or two, he speaks again, “I did not want this.”

Gaby stops in her tracks, tempted to reach for her cigarettes for a social crutch but she resists the urge. Instead she turns her dark head up to his. The sun is dipping dangerously low in the sky, streaks of dark blue are starting to make their appearance, marking the end of their night soon. Gaby waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t seem to have any more words, “You did not want this? Then why are you here?”

The Russian man exhales slowly and reaches up, rubbing at his face as if he can scrub the tension away, “My parents. Both of them were arranged to be married. They insist they are very happy still. It was brought to my attention that I should follow in their footsteps. Arrangements were made. Your Uncle actually approached them.”

Gaby’s rage towards her Uncle only skyrockets at the words leaving Illya’s lips.

“I thought it was silly, but then I come here and meet this German ballerina and she is very beautiful.” Illya’s voice has lowered substantially. Gaby almost has to lean forward to catch his words, “On paper we would be very good together. I could be a good partner for you. Make all the right investments. Russian way is always best.”

She closes her eyes and wants to scream. “I am my own woman! I am not to be sold to any man for my inheritance.” She manages to keep her voice low but the anger is there. She clenches her small hands into fists, like she could fight him if she wanted to. Of course there is a big chance her little fists would be nothing but small hits against his expensive suit. Instead of letting her carry on, he grabs her small clenched hands. His thumbs smooth over the backs of her knuckles in a slow soothing manner.

“You would not be my property,” Illya assures her. “My parents want this, but I think with most certainty, we could be partners. Your money would be your own, your property your own. Please consider my offer.”

He squeezes her small fists for a moment and Gaby is at a loss for words. She wants to go on and on about being a free woman, but he’s right. If she rejects this arrangement, her Uncle will just force another and another until she is being urged by the estate to take a husband. “I don’t want this. Not yet,” Gaby finally speaks up, voice soft and whisper-like against his own.

She hates to admit, but Illya is very handsome in the beginning states of starlight.

“Nyet, not yet.” He assures her and his fingers slip away from her fists, uncurling her own digits for a moment before he lets go of her all together, “Long engagement better. I will write you, every week until you agree to dance with me.” His small smile is back as they circle the rest of the estate property. The tension across her shoulders eases and Gaby falls into a slow pace with him. It is easier to be around the man who is doomed to be her husband. The arrangement is still a bother in the back of her mind, but her thoughts are clouded with Illya. He is surprisingly much better than the nightmares she conjured up in her free time.

He walks her to the door and leaves her inside the front foyer. He keeps his manners, saying goodbye to her Uncle Rudi first, demanding they meet again for drinks and future plans for the estate. Her Uncle is practically smitten with the Russian man and Gaby watches until he turns towards her.

“Thank you, Gaby for the evening. It has been most enlightening.” Illya steps in close and yet far enough to be polite, bending at the waist to her level. He kisses her cheek softly and Gaby can still feel his lips there long after he leaves.


	28. Illya/Gaby - Alternative Opening

**Prompt: The Russians manage to nab Teller's estranged daughter before the Americans back in East Berlin. - TW: Blood , TW: Violence**

 

The Russian man can drive, Gaby will give him that. Even with the American giving her directions in the back, their little friend is keeping close. He manages to follow all of her hairpin turns and even collides more than once with her rear bumper, knocking her wheels all over the road. Her knuckles are strained white along the steering wheel as she grips hard and cuts right. The tires squeal and the smell of burning rubber assaults the mechanic’s nose but she manages to keep her foot down on the accelerator. She moves her right hand down for just a moment, putting the car in third gear and praying the acceleration outruns the Russian man in his white car. He keeps close. Headlights blur in her rearview mirror but Gaby pays them no mind, just sets her jaw and demands the American keep up with directions.

He tells her left. His voice surprisingly calm as tells her to swing right. It’s the wrong call.

When she swings right, the tail end of her car collides with a parked vehicle on the side road. Her back tire hits the curb and suddenly there’s an explosion of glass. The white car smashes into the her black one and glass goes everywhere. Gaby’s neck is snapped back against the seat with the seatbelt, head smashing into the side of the door just hard enough to jar her thoughts. The American though, Gaby can’t hear him. She can’t see him either. Her car is shoved further up the sidewalk, half hitting the building next to her. There’s white smoke and the smell of burning oil. Her eyes water for a moment, heart pounding in her chest. She can’t seem to get a grip on anything around her. Her world is a blurry mess of colors and she reaches down to pull at her seatbelt. There’s a fine ringing in her ears and she is confused as she turns to look behind the seat. The American is unconscious and there is a cut on his pale forehead. Blood runs down the side of his handsome face and drips onto her seat. Gaby manages to push herself between the seats, her hand stretched out with bloody fingers reaching for the man.

She doesn’t get the chance to touch Napoleon. Not before there’s a shadow across the broken window. Gaby’s breath hitches and reality snaps back to her. Her dazed consciousness quickly blotting away as fear grips her. The Russian man is there, he’s too close. His piercing blue eyes catch onto hers and Gaby scrambles back to the driver’s seat. There’s no use in trying to start the car. It won’t go anywhere in its current condition. Her hand closes around the door handle and she tries to push it open, but something in the collision has damaged the door. She throws her shoulder into it as her teeth rake over her bottom lip. Napoleon’s words are echoing in her brain, telling her to run as she imagines exactly what he said, tied to a water pipe with her toenails being removed.

The vision alone is enough to push her forward. Gaby slams her shoulder once again into the door but it doesn’t budge one bit. Not when the Russian man is moving to the passenger side where the window is broken. His sleeved elbow hits the rest of the glass out of the way as he growls something out in his mother tongue. Gaby turns to put as much space between her and the passenger side of the door. She presses her back against the driver’s side door and kicks a foot out at the man. She’s thankful for her mechanic coveralls protecting her skin from most of the broken glass. She hits the blond man with her boot and he curses. At least she thinks the words that leave him are curses. Even as he shouts her name.

He knows exactly who she is.

He knows exactly who her father is and just like Solo told her, he is going to torture her for information that she doesn’t have. The KGB will most likely kill her anyways. Trying to escape East Berlin is a crime worthy of the firing squad. Gaby won’t go without a fight. If he’s going to take her, she’s going to make it as hard as possible. He reaches for her again and she kicks again, but this time he grabs a hold of her skinny ankle and drags her forward. She brings up her other leg and kicks at him again, shouting at him. German curses spill from her lips as he yanks her forward. Somehow in all her kicking and squirming, he lets go and she scrambles to get into the backseat with the unconscious American. Only when she starts to squeeze between the seats, the Russian man gets the door open and before Gaby can get her hands on Napoleon’s gun, she’s being hauled out of the car.

Her heart catches in her throat and her hands dig into the car seats. Her nails splinter and crack as she desperately holds to the seat. It doesn’t take much pulling on Kuryakin’s behalf. He pulls her once, twice, and on the third tug, he has the little German woman. She is light compared to what he can lift and she is feisty.

There’s a fire in her and he knows she’s a survivor and those are the hardest to capture.

“Be still!” He manages to hiss it out in broken English.

Gaby refuses to do anything but that. She kicks out and flails. She tries to get her feet on solid ground but the KGB Agent is well trained. He manages to give her a good shake before sliding his leg down between her flailing ones. With one practice motion, he has her feet knocked out from under her and she’s face first on the damp sidewalk. Her world is a blur all over again. This time it’s silent pleas and prayers for her life. She doesn’t utter a word as he twists her hands behind her back like a criminal. She can feel the rain from earlier soaking into her coverall and a sob threatens to claw its way free from her throat, but Gaby holds herself firm. She keeps her brown eyes focused on her ruined car. She tries to imagine Napoleon sitting up and firing his gun at the Russian man. Only it doesn’t happen for her. Once again her dreams are taken away by the Russian’s as she’s arrested and hauled into the back of the white car. It’s a wonder it still runs. The front end is badly damaged and the windshield is cracked in half. None of this seems to bother the agent though as he takes a seat in the driver’s seat and pulls a small radio up from the dash.

“Teller is ours. I leave American for you to clean up.”


	29. Illya/Gaby - Helping Little Ones

**Prompt: I feel like Illya is not only kind to old women but probably also children bc they're so innocent and they don't have any alterior motives besides being kids and I would like to prompt Illya on a mission or something where he's in a public setting and a tiny little girl wanders up to him lost and crying and you bet your ass he'd pick her up so she can see over everyone from his height and ask if she sees her mother and I feel like it happens a lot and Gaby ( & probs Solo too) thinks it's adorable.**

 

The drop goes down in about twenty minutes and the team is already in position. Illya’s newspaper is firmly set in his hands as he reclines on the park bench, blonde hair covered by his trademark hat and set jawline. His sunglasses are pushed high up the bridge of his news, letting him scan his surroundings while they wait for their information trade off. Gaby’s not far from him, perched up high in a tree, hidden from sight with a set of binoculars strapped around her neck. Solo is several hundred feet away, pretending to be a vender for the afternoon, selling sweets that no one is really buying. They blend in so well in such a crowded place. The sun is shining and the Paris weather is holding up well. Spring is definitely in the air with the sickly sweet scent of flowers blooming across the walkways that all lead up to the playground not far from his bench. The sound of children shrieking with loud laughter unnerves him a bit. He doesn’t trust anyone who wants to meet around so many innocent lives. He adjusts his long legs, stretching back out and then crossing his legs once again. He makes a show of turning the page of his newspaper and a small voice in his ear brings him back to attention.

“Quit moving Peril,” Solo’s cool crisp voice sounds in his ear-com and Illya makes a small noise of disapproval as his comrade carries on, “You’re going to look like a KGB agent if you keep moving around.”

Illya scoffed flicking his paper again, “I am a KGB Agent.”

“Yes, but you’re not supposed to look like it.” Gaby informs softly in his ear. They are all wired up to one another on the same frequency on small devices that hide so easily in their ears. It’s the latest technology from U.N.C.L.E. and only works when they’re far apart. If they’re too close together, feedback picks up and threatens to deafen the trio. Gaby’s perch is not really comfortable, but she makes the best of it, leaning across a thick branch and holding still as she pulls the binoculars up to her brown eyes. From her position she can see most of the crowded park. There are children everywhere with parents not far from them. A kite flies not far from her, it’s a bright flash of red in a sunny sky which makes her relax for the first time in what feels like forever. As a child she never got the chance for such pleasantries. When the wall went up, the world went grey for her. Pushing those feelings aside, she adjusts her view on the binoculars and zeros in on Illya.

Illya is uncomfortable but quits moving on the advice of his partners. He’s not reading a word of the newspaper in his hand, his eyes are too busy scanning the area looking for their drop. His attention is elsewhere when the first sob hits his ears. A small hiccup and then another sob before a small hand is pulling at his pant leg. Bending the paper down, Illya looks over the rim of his dark glasses, confusion landing across his features as a small girl pulled at his pant leg again. Her small hand barely covered part of his knee as she said her first words to him in a shaky tone.

“E-e-excuse me,” She hiccuped again, blue eyes rimmed in red from the steady stream of tears streaking down her round cheeks. The little girl’s hand never left his knee as she let her small fingers clench in the soft fabric of his pants. She clung to Illya’s leg while trying to find her words for him, “I-I-I…” She stutters along, flustered.

Something in the Russian man melts and he puts his paper aside, abandoning it on the park bench as the little girl grips on to his pants once more and before he can ask her what is wrong a soft wail leaves her lips.

“I want my mother!” Her voice cracks as a new wave of tears start to fall.

“It’s okay,” Illya assures her carefully, moving his hand down and touching her own. The little girl instantly lets go of his pant leg and grabs a hold of his fingers, squeezing the first two tightly. He stands tall and her blond pigtails barely come up to his knees, “What is your name?”

The little girl reaches up with her free hand and swipes under her nose, mumbling her name out against her actions, “A-amalie.”

Illya nods down to her and then looks up and around the park. He is tall, it has always been an advantage to him. His long legs let him move farther faster and allow him to see so much further than those around him. He scans the park for a mother, anyone looking distressed. There is no one crying out looking for a child. Little Amalie’s bottom lip trembles with a whole new round of tears as she clings to his hand.

“Amalie,” Illya starts softly and kneels. He has nothing against children. They are innocent in a world of wrong and he can not simply ignore her when so many other parents are going about their business. He feels a flash of anger wondering who could lose their child, but pushes it aside the moment the little blonde pulls on his hand. Clearing his throat he turns his head over to her, “My name is Illya.” He tells her knowingly with a nod of his head.

“Illya,” She repeats his name her voice no longer flustered. Her hiccups are dissipating and he gives her the smallest of smiles. A slight upturning of his lips to encourage her along, “Illya, I lost my mother.” She reaches up once again and rubs at the edge of her eye to push away the tears.

Her fingers are slightly sticky and her jumper is covered in sand from the sandbox, but he doesn’t think twice about picking her up. “Then we will find her,” Illya assures the little girl as he hoists her up and sets her on his shoulders, holding her carefully with both hands. Amalie’s hands instantly smacking around his cheeks, holding onto him, trying to resist a giggle at the sudden height advantage. He could feel the laugh leave her lips, fingers tightening on his cheeks, playing with the five o’clock shadow he had settling across his jaw. She leaned down and pressed her chin to the top of his hat and clung to him.

“She is not as tall as you!” Amalie informs him as she holds to him as he turns to look towards the park. Amalie is carefully balanced atop of his shoulders, her legs around the back of his neck as he moves skillfully to keep her balanced. He walks along the sidewalk carefully asking Amalie if she sees her mother yet. The small girl on his shoulders shakes her head, “No, no, no. None of them are my mother.”

Her voice starts to tremble again as Illya rounds the decorative playground. He moves around the crowd of children, scanning park benches for any mothers looking for their children. No one is standing out just yet. He cuts in front of a bright yellow slide and turns to his left while Amalie scopes out his right. “What does she look like?” Illya asks in a voice that is so soft it startles his two partners listening in.

“Yellow hair,” Amalie ticks off her mother’s attributes carefully, words mumbled against his hat, “Blue eyes, – That’s HER!” The little girl on his shoulders shrieks out and points her hand to Illya’s right. She’s pointing at the edge of the park, near the tree line where a woman in a blue sundress is looking worried. Her brow is creased and her lips are pulled tight as she shouts out Amalie’s name, blonde head moving side to side, sweeping the park for her child. Illya wastes no time. He starts in the direction of the woman and Amalie’s shouting catches her mother’s attention.

The woman sprints the rest of the way to Illya. Her world is a disheveled mess as she reaches both hands out for Amalie. The little girl squirms nearly off of his shoulders and Illya helps her the rest of the way down, right into her mother’s arms. She grips her child so tight her knuckles are turning white as she starts saying ‘thank yous’ to Illya so fast, he can hardly hear her until she picks her head up away from Amalie’s shoulder, “Thank you! Thank you!” She’s practically shouting the words, tears brimming in her eyes and Illya can feel his heart stutter around in his chest for a moment at his good deed.

The woman and Amalie pull him into an impromptu hug that he has no idea how to return. He stands there nervously as the woman hugs him tightly along with her daughter before they pull away and thank him again. Illya nods his head carefully, “It was nothing,” He assures them and takes a step back from the duo. The two thank him one final time before Amalie’s mother takes her hand and pulls her close, turning their back to Illya and heading in the direction of the park exit. Illya sucks in a sharp breath and then slowly exhales. He feels lighter and for a moment allows himself to relax.

A rustling in the branch above him steals his attention and Gaby hangs out of the tree next to him, her legs hooked over the branch and her face not far from his, just upside down. She gives him a very wide grin that distorts her features. The feedback in his earpiece picks up for a moment as Gaby swings carefully, her dark ponytail swishing back and forth close to his shoulder, “That was the cutest thing I think I have ever seen.” She practically coos out the words, clapping her little calloused fingers together.

Illya scoffs and turns pink around the tips of his ears, looking away from Gaby. He crosses his arms and scowls for a moment as Napoleon chips in over the frequency, “Honestly, Peril you’re making the rest of look back with those types of heroics.”

Gaby snickers and swings over just enough to press her lips to Illya’s cheek. She gives him the soft peck before swinging herself back up into the tree and out of sight. Illya’s cheeks burn a little brighter and his small smile returns before he grumbles out a quick, “Back to the mission.”


	30. Illya/Gaby - Hurried Confessions

**Prompt: gaby gets seriously hurt on a mission and confesses her feelings to a desperate illya because she thinks she's going to die. - TW: Blood , TW: Violence**

 

They are almost home free when the gunshot goes off. The sound echoes off of the aluminum walls of the T.H.R.U.S.H. warehouse and a bullet buries itself in Gaby’s back. Everything happens so fast, she forgets to scream. Her lips part but no sound comes out. Her legs are rubbery and she falls to her knees watching as both her comrades race ahead, leaving her behind. Her vision blurs and she sees Illya glance over his shoulder and then stop. Her name leaves his lips as he shouts to her and turns. Without breaking stride, Illya is running to her. Gaby can barely shake her head to him as more gunshots erupt behind them. Illya doesn’t stop once. He pulls on her arm and then drags her up, pulling her into his side. Napoleon has turned now.

The world is a blur of colors to her. Sounds are either too loud or muffled. There is no inbetween for Gaby, just the steady rush of warmth across her back and the sudden chill along her skin. Her world is spinning too fast with black edging into her vision. Somehow Napoleon is next to her, firing back over her shoulder with quick precision. More gunshots are sounded but Gaby can barely hear them. She can hear her heart beating a million miles per hour and she can hear every inhale her lungs make. Suddenly finding air is very hard to do for the small mechanic. Her hand ends up squeezing Illya’s and some way or another, Napoleon and him both are dragging her out of the warehouse. The night air hits the trio and cuts right through them like a knife. It’s below freezing out and all Gaby can feel is the hot blood sliding down her spine like a lazy river.

Napoleon and Illya hold Gaby up carefully, but still manage to run. Their getaway car isn’t far and the keys are in the visor, ready for Solo once they get Gaby in the back. Illya lingers back with Gaby, keeping her company with a hand on her back. He’s holding his weight on the bullet wound in her back. There’s too much blood and it’s much too dark for him to see where she’s hit, so he just holds her down. The back seat of the car is rough against Gaby’s cheek but it’s the only feeling she can focus on. Illya is pressing hard on her back, keeping her down, her legs are bunched up and uncomfortable. A sob claws it’s way from her throat as the pain starts to sink in.

“Shh,” Illya’s lips are pursed and he moves his free hand over and lets just the tip of his fingers brush along Gaby’s forehead. It’s a gentle touch, barely even there. He doesn’t want to cause her anymore pain, “It’s going to be okay.”

He repeats the same words he did in Rome. Only this time there’s no rain just snow flurries outside of the car and she’s been shot. There’s a lot of blood. She can feel it soaking into her clothes, chilling her skin and filling the car with the sharp scent of copper, “Illya,” She grounds out his name carefully. Her hand clenches into a fist to stop herself from shaking, “Illya, it hurts.”

Her voice breaks and Illya curses under his breath. Gaby was never supposed to be hurt. In every mission since Rome he had gone above and beyond to make sure she always came out with minimal bumps and scrapes. She was never supposed to be in the line of fire and he blames himself. It doesn’t matter that the bullet came from T.H.R.U.S.H. or who it was meant for, all that matters it that it hit Gaby. Her breathing is labored against the seat and sweat is starting to bead up along her forehead, making her bangs stick to her face, “I know,” Illya assures her quietly, “It won’t for long.”

He lies to her because it’s all he has. He is grasping at anything and all he has is Napoleon’s hard stare in the rearview mirror and his need to make her pain go away. The palm of his hand is damp against her blouse now and worry settles into his stomach as she shifts against the seat, turning her head up. Napoleon hits the accelerator harder and the car weaves in and out of Prague traffic. Street lights zip by, illuminating Gaby’s face with a sicky glow and Illya reaches for her again but Gaby catches him. Her hand grabs onto his own and she’s breathing very hard now. Pain flickers across her face and she grimaces as the car hits a bump. Her grip on Illya tightens though as black edges into her vision. She’s lost a lot of blood and she may never get to see the handsome man in front of her again, “Illya,” She squeezes his hand until she can no longer feel her grip on his, “Illya.”

The more she repeats his name the more desperate he gets. When he pulls his hand away from her back, it’s coated in red. Illya can’t hide his fear from Gaby. She knows him too well. They’ve spent too many nights together with her insomnia. He would teach her chess, listen to her stories of ballet, and every once in awhile he would give her a piece of his story.

“Gaby, no. You have to hold on.” Illya is getting desperate, his voice is urgent now as he moves his blood covered hand over her back, pressing down against it once more. Gaby screams under the pressure, pain is good though. If she still feels pain there’s a chance they can make it. There is no going to a hospital though. They have to make it to a safehouse first. Their covers will be blown the moment any of them step foot into a Prague hospital.

“Peril, you need to stop the bleeding.” Napoleon tries to keep calm but Illya can hear the waver in the American’s voice.

“I know!” He hisses over the backseat and Gaby’s breathing is getting more and more shallow.

“Illya,” Gaby breathes out his name and her eyes roll up for a moment before back down to him, “Ilya, it hurts.” She murmurs it again and holds onto him. He hasn’t let go of her yet and he feels her grip slowly start to slip, “Illya.” Gaby is saying his name like it’s her last saving grace.

“Gaby,” Illya leans over, still holding pressure on the wound, “We are almost there.”

“I know I am.” She closes her eyes for a moment and he feels panic surge in his chest before she digs her nails into his palm, holding to him tightly, “I love you,” She breathes softly to him and her grip is gone. Illya’s vision goes red and Napoleon’s grip on the wheel tightens until he threatens to break the steering wheel.

There’s a steady sound of a machine in the distance and light breaks into the darkness. Illya hasn’t slept in days and the exhaustion has finally broken him down. He’s slumped down low in the chair next to the bed with his head propped up on his fist. A dark shadow of a beard is starting along his jaw and Napoleon has never seen him so wild, so unhinged. His golden hair is a tousled mess and his shirt is stained in blood. He came into relieve the Russian of his bedside duty, but he rather let him sleep instead. The sudden moving on the bed has his attention and Solo looks over in just enough time to see Gaby’s eyes opening. Her body has been through enough trauma to last a lifetime. They had barely made it to the safe house after her little confession and after radioing in U.N.C.L.E., Waverly sent the troops in.

A team had come for them in minutes, Gaby had taken priority and taking Peril away from Gaby wasn’t an option. They were flown out of Prague to another city, to a private hospital with private security and Gaby had a team of doctors and a lot of blood. The little mechanic turned MI-6 managed to pull through. Solo was proud of her and Illya, Illya had been grateful. He had prayed in Russian, held her hand, and hadn’t left her side. Clearing his throat was all it took to wake the Russian bear. Gaby turned her head to Solo, sleepy recognition in her eyes and Illya was looking at Gaby. He stood so fast the chair fell behind him, clattering to the floor as his hands moved on either side of Gaby’s head. His fingers slid up along her cheeks, amazed to see her awake.

“Gaby,” Illya’s thumbs stroked down along her cheeks, watching her lips turn up into a weary smile.

“Illya.” She said his name firmly as he leaned in and let his forehead rest on hers carefully. The tip of his nose brushed along hers and she closed her eyes slowly.

“I love you.”

Gaby blinked her eyes up and open, smile widening as she reached up and wrapped her fingers around his wrist, “Tell me again?” She asked softly watching the man before her start nodding. Illya nodded until he was able to find the words, his mouth turning up into a relieved smile.

“As many times as you wish.”


	31. AU - The Ballerina & The Stage Help

**Prompt: Gaby is a ballerina and Illya is the large, taciturn, Russian costume designer she has and unfortunate crush on.**

 

His hands start on her slim waist before he pulls tightly, dragging the thick ribbon around her middle until there is no more give in the fabric. Gaby exhales a soft breath and flutters her lashes up as she tilts her dark head back, watching the glow of the spotlight not far from her. She’s backstage near the hustle and bustle of the theatre but her mind is solely focused on the man kneeling behind her. His hands are careful and precise, calloused from years of sewing intricate costumes. He has designed her last three and each one of them has been a masterpiece all on it’s own. This one is no different with it’s pale pink tulle and shocks of glittering gold braided into the fabric. She sparkles with every move, but now he’s pulling another ribbon around her and it doesn’t match at all.

Gaby glances down carefully, eyes tracing his fingers on her waist before she clears her throat, “I don’t think that matches.” She states with a bit of confidence in her voice, proud that she’s correcting the great stoic Illya Kuryakin for his bad taste in color.

The ribbon around her waist is a bright aquatic blue that he quickly pulls tighter around her, knocking her a bit off balance in her small pointe shoes. Gaby’s lips part with a quick gasp and she quickly catches herself like any great dancer would before Illya’s low words hit her. His lips are close to her ear, “It doesn’t have to match.”

His accent is thick and his breath ghosts over the shell of her ear making her shiver. The hairs on the back of her neck stand tall and she knows this isn’t from fear but something else. She flushes a soft pink, scowling to no one in particular as his voice triggers the effect. Clenching her jaw tightly, she moves her hand back, elbow catching him slightly in the side before his hands slide back to her waist. With little effort, he puts her back in position so he can continue working on her costume.

He is a man of few words and coldest of stares, but Gaby finds herself in this same position every time the show changes. She lingers on the few words he does say and waits patiently for him to adjust her costume, always having to hem a little higher for her shorter stature. He works longer on her costumes than any of the other girls. Though that could be for a number of reasons, everything from her short stature or to the fact that Gaby nabs just about every lead the theatre has to offer. It’s not from any form of favoritism either. She is an amazing dancer, spending just about every waking minute of her day stretching her legs, working on her routine. As the lead dancer her costumes are more detailed, giving her more time with the great costume designer.

The same one she has an unrequited crush on.

His blue eyes are striking and so is his perfectly combed hair. He watches every rehearsal and every show, even if his skills are not needed and Gaby always catches a glimpse of him during each pirouette. She finds herself constantly searching for him behind the scenes and saying nothing at all when in his presence. They have a history of long looks and spare glances, but the amount of words between them is almost nothing.

He ties the bright belt around her middle and lets his hands slide away slowly, moving to readjust the way she stands before stepping back. He lets go of her skirt all together and stands back, hand on his chin. After a moment or two he speaks again, “Turn.”

He orders her quietly in that harsh whisper of his and Gaby bites back a smile, turning slowly in her slippers, holding her pose, hands carefully at her sides and her dark head tilted back. She has a defiant little smirk slipping across her lips but it’s hard to hold up when he’s staring at her with such an intense look. His eyes sweep from her crown to the rounded edges of her toes and Gaby feels her insides turn warm. He is much too handsome for his own good, Gaby decides and tries to avert her eyes. Only when she looks away he clears his throat and steps forward, hands moving back to her waist. He adjusts the bright belt of ribbon and then carefully slides his hand along the bend of her elbow, turning her like she would on stage. Only there’s no spotlight, it’s just the two of them backstage with the rest of the world melting away. Gaby moves slowly, his hand spreads across her lower back and then it’s over with and she’s facing him again, turning her head up to catch a glimpse of him. He’s a whole head taller than her and somehow it’s intimidating, making her swallow hard before he nods approvingly.

“It stays,” Illya finally announces, but he doesn’t let go of her just yet. His hand lingers and Gaby thinks maybe, just maybe her crush isn’t unrequited.


	32. Illya/Gaby - Appendicitis Blues

**Prompt: First and foremost, this is the greatest blog on the face of the planet. Second of all, could you do one where Gaby has appendicitis mid-mission and ignores it to the point where it bursts and she has to be rushed to the hospital. I imagine Illya would be so mad after she recovers. But she didn't want to look inferior to the trained spies.**

 

The first twinge of pain comes on the plane ride to Paris. It is almost nothing compared to some of the scratches and bites that Gaby has received since working with U.N.C.L.E. She pushes the pain aside and leans over the edge of her seat on the plane. Her eyes catch Illya’s and then Napoleon’s own. Napoleon smiles at her, his trademark boyish charm shining through and Illya sinks back in his seat while the plane hits a pocket of turbulence.

“How much longer?” Gaby asks lazily, her accent bleeding through her words as she smooths a hand over her abdomen for a moment, soothing away any more twinges of pain.

“Not much, we’ll land in Paris, get to the meeting point and then hopefully have at least an hour to scope out the hotel amenities.” Napoleon’s grin stretches a little wider and both of his partners know why. Napoleon could careless about his new cover in Paris, he’s much more interested in indulging himself in the City of Love. Gaby shakes her head and Illya scoffs softly under his breath. No more words are exchanged for the rest of the plane ride and Gaby reclines back into her seat, enjoying a moment of downtime.

Fashion in Paris is beyond anywhere else Gaby has ever been. Everything is vibrant and cutting edge, it makes Illya very happy as they start their mission off in yet another boutique. Gaby turns around in front of the tri-plated mirror and then stops with her back to the glass, facing Illya with her wide smile. “I like this,” She practically cheers out the words.

Illya doesn’t smile yet. His fingers are under his bottom lip, poised carefully as he watches her spin once more. The short red dress floats up along the tops of Gaby’s knees at her little motion and he feels like red is definitely a color for her. For someone so new to the world of espionage, Gaby is very good at keeping a straight face, except now when he watches her pull at the edge of the skirt, fingers smoothing over the fabric in small circles. She loves the dress and he is inclined to buy it for her. Which he does, right after he crosses the small space between them and takes a hold of her hand. For a moment she wonders if he’s going to give her another ring. She still has the one from Rome, it’s hanging from a silver chain around her neck. His hands are gentle with hers as he carefully unfolds her fingers and presses something in the center of her palm, “This is new communication device.”

When She glances down, she’s a little sad to see it’s not a ring. Instead it’s a small ear-piece that fits snuggly inside of her ear, hidden from sight. The next twinge takes place lower in her belly, a phantom sort of ache that she pushes aside as Napoleon sticks his head inside of the small boutique. He mentions word of a drop off and Waverly, meaning the mission has a mark and they’re set to go. The dress is paid for and worn out of the store as Gaby ignores the dull throbbing in her midsection. Her nerves are on fire for a new mission. She’s not made like Solo and Illya. She is made for life under a car, deep inside of an engine – not on the other side of a gun. Still, she wants to make her new life work and that means ignoring the uncomfortable pain her body is delivering her. Instead she focuses on Illya’s hand brushing the bend of her elbow, ushering her out of the store and into the rental car.

The pain only gets worse as the night goes on. It’s a low throbbing pain skating lower and lower in her abdomen. It makes it hard for her to keep a straight face as she tries to disappear in the sea of party guests. They’re undercover in Paris, where a member of a certain Ambassador is attempting to sell and trade illegal arms. Napoleon is casing the dance floor and Illya is working covertly, behind the scenes, weaving himself in and out of the staff’s way to find access to any hidden parts of the mansion they’re party is being hosted in. Gaby is supposed to be keeping an eye on any security, but it’s getting more and more difficult to concentrate.

Her hand smoothes over the lower part of her dress, palm rubbing softly against her lower abdomen before she takes another sip of her champagne. She chalks the pain up to hunger and carries on with the mission, blocking any security she can from getting up the stairs to the rest of the house. She flirts like a champion, fluttering her lashes and speaking in that low tone of hers. Illya tries not to roll his eyes too much at the words Gaby speaks over the coms and Napoleon only cheers her on. Gaby’s pride swells up enough that she forgets the pain and ends up distracting security just long enough for Illya to slip back down the stairs with files tucked on the inside of his jacket.

The three of them almost manage to make it out with no suspicion. Almost.

The pain goes from a dull throbbing to something much worse. Gaby’s insides are on fire and the glass of champagne in her hand starts to shake. The golden liquid spills over the top of the stem class and then she drops it. Glass shatters into a thousand little pieces on the dance floor and she doubles over. Gaby’s left hand is slung across her lower midsection as black dots dance behind her vision. She sways, the world is edging in darkness as she clenches her jaw so tight she’s scared she may break her teeth. The pain burning hot and she’s unable to keep herself standing.

“Gaby,” Illya’s voice comes over the com all full of worry and concern as she feels her knees knock together.

“Gaby!” Napoleon shouts her name across the ballroom. They’re going to blow their mission all because of her silly stomach cramps. Gaby tries to raise her head but it’s all she can do to keep her eyes open as Illya shouts at her again. She can see someone moving up close to her side, a security guard for the party. She waves her hand off to him, trying to take a step down but there’s no use. Everyone in the party is watching her fall to the ground. Her knees knock together once more and Gaby can hear Illya’s voice before the pain laced shout leaves her lips.

The small German woman hits the floor and Illya is there before any of the French Ambassador’s men can get to her. He doesn’t hesitate in scooping her into his arms. She’s so small and lightweight against his chest, a moan leaving her lips against his suit jacket. Her skin is hot to the touch and sweat is starting to slide down her tan cheeks. Illya’s panic does not go unnoticed by Solo as his comrade turns and shouts something about needing a doctor.

Napoleon’s acting skills are put to the test as he raises a hand and shouts, “I’m a doctor!” and the crowd parts for him. He makes a big show of running to Illya and Gaby, touching her forehead and looking up to his Russian friend with fear in his blue eyes. With quick thinking he turns on his heel and makes a gesture to the crowd, “This woman needs a hospital! Quick! I need a car!” Before he can even speak, the Ambassador himself is throwing a set of keys to Napoleon, watching him carefully.

Illya is out of the mansion before Napoleon can even manage to catch the keys. They drive with the pedal to the floorboard of the car. Their mission is blown, both of them know it. It’s not important though, corrupt Ambassadors can always be taken out the hard way with a scope and Russian made bullet. Fellow Agents are more important. Napoleon’s foot switches from accelerator to brake as a Paris hospital comes into view. They leave the car in the emergency lane and it’s Illya that carries Gaby inside. She’s flushed, cheek pressed into his chest and trying so hard not to cry out in pain. Her hands are on her side, holding tightly only to be pried away by nurses when they roll a stretcher to them.

Illya and Napoleon are pushed out of the emergency hall, left to the waiting room where they are both very bad at waiting. Illya paces and Solo tries to sit still, but ends up in the cafeteria hitting on stray nurses on their dinner breaks. Illya paces until he’s practically worn a hole through the floor and every time the double doors at the end of the hall open, his heart skips a few beats. His mind is a mess of questions, a million of them rushing through. He never knew the little Chop Shop Girl was ever in any pain. He wracks his brain for any words she may have said, but nothing comes to mind. His head was so caught up in the mission he missed something and it makes his hands clench up into uniformed fists. His anger bleeds into his pacing as his shoulders hunched a bit and his steps become more and more determined.

The door at the end of the hall finally opens and Illya recognizes the doctor that comes out, motioning to him. The man in the white coat pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and holds a clipboard close to his chest as Illya moves closer, “You are her husband, no?” The man asks carefully as he turns his head up to Illya.

Without thinking, Illya nods and answers the man quickly, “Yes. Yes I am. Is she okay?”

Ilya holds his breath, his entire insides are seizing up as worry overtakes him. The doctor pauses for a moment and then pulls his clipboard down and Illya’s blood starts to run cold, because this can not be good news. Before he can speak though, the doctor is nodding, “She is well. Better than she was before. Her appendix has burst. Very fatal if not treated correctly. You were right to bring her in.”

Relief floods his insides and without waiting on the doctor to finish, Illya pushes past the man. The doctor doesn’t even fight him as Illya pushes through the double doors and nearly runs down the hallway of the hospital. His blue eyes scan each doorway before he finds Gaby. She’s so small against the stark white bed, with dark hair spilling out over the pale pillow. Her normal tone is pale and she looks clammy under the terrible lights. He wants to be angry with her.

He wants to tell her she should have been more careful, but it’s hard to get those words out when she sees him and smiles. Her little lips turn up into a slight smile and she reaches a hand out to him, fingers limp. Without any more of an invitation, Illya moves and takes her hand. Her fingers are instantly enveloped in both of his as he presses as tight as he can to the side of the hospital bed.

“I’m sorry,” Gaby’s voice is raspy and she looks exhausted. She squeezes his fingers and he finds his anger chipping away.

“Don’t do that again.” Illya’s voice is quiet over the sound of the beeping machines she’s hooked up to. Solo is probably talking with the doctor in the waiting room by now but Illya could care less. He’s too distracted with the small mechanic’s hands holding his. This is the most contact they’ve had since Rome, he only wishes it was under other circumstances.

“I didn’t want to look bad.” Gaby muses softly as she looks down at her terrible appearance, making a slight face, “I’m still new at this.”

Illya makes a soft ‘tsk’ like noise before blowing out a soft sigh, “Appendicitis and you’re still a better spy than Cowboy.”


	33. AU - We're Not Spies

**Prompt: Could you please write an au where there are no spies; their cover is real? Where Illya really is a Russian architect with his fiance in Rome?**

They move down the steps with a slow pace, Illya taking care to lead Gaby forward, hand on the small of her back in a guiding motion. His fingers curl along the soft fabric of her dress and he can’t help but smile when his fiance turns her head up. She catches his eye and smiles much wider than he could ever hope to. They make it down the steps and Gaby turns, intentionally curling herself in his arm. She notorious for finding reasons to touch him. Gaby’s back brushes his chest as she waves her fingers towards the stairs, “Tell me about the stairs hm?”

She turns her head up again and he nods towards the infamous stairs they just descended. He moves his hands up and onto her shoulders, fingers curling against her dress as he takes a deep breath. There’s the faint scent of her shampoo and something much thicker, a smell that reminds him of motor oil and the garage she left behind just to put a ring on her finger. She left East Berlin for him. Of course he had strings to pull, so many favors to ask in exchange for good papers. Papers that would get Gaby over the wall and out into the world. They’ve come to Rome to meet her estranged family but so far, she’s enjoying more of the city than the idea of seeing her relatives.

Gaby reached up and let her fingers grasp at Illya’s on her shoulders. His fingers turned over in her hold, tracing the outline of her ring.

Crashing his car into a tank had been the best mistake he ever made. Out of all the garages in East Berlin, he came into hers. Her garage was the only one willing to cater to Russian citizens. He had to ignore the slurs under her breath as she inspected his damaged car and before he could ask for another mechanic, Gaby had lifted the hood and buried herself into work. It started there in the dimly lit garage with fire in her eyes. She had a sharp tongue and attitude to match, with dirty fingers that smudged his suit when she grabbed a hold of him to show the car’s internal damage. She was expensive but he paid it all. Then when she had done all the repairs she could, he tried to get her to fix more. Then slowly those nights in the garage melded into more. They became tea breaks and long winded discussions about the German architecture.

Their conversations never strayed to the wall being built. She never called him Russian and he never called her German. Though the words were never said aloud, they both knew the trouble they could get into. The ridicule that would come along, so they kept it quiet. Eventually Illya’s time ran out and the wall’s last brick was laid.

He decided then to take her with him, no matter what it took. In her dimly lit garage he had bent down on one knee. His pants ruined by a puddle of oil. His fingers had found hers and he found himself pleading for the first time in his life. Pleading for the love of a very expensive mechanic. She put him out of his misery with a kiss. Gaby’s lips found his and she closed her hand over his, pressing the ring between their palms.

Now they stood in Rome as free people. They could go anywhere now, no longer burden by a wall splitting between the city. He traced her ring once more and cleared his throat, telling her the story of the steps and style that the rest of Rome sat on. She smiled leaning back into him, her shorter stature keeping her tucked into his hold as the rest of the city blurred by.

They stood as free people, unconditionally happy.


	34. Illya/Gaby - Future Family Chaos

**Prompt: Two men and two babies. Solo and Illya think they can easily manage Gallya twins, while Gabby has a well deserved beauty day.**

 

The hands running up and down her back are soothing at her sore muscles, reducing the ex-mechanic to little more than a soft moan into the table. After weeks of pulling double duty at the house, she is on a well deserved day off. All courtesy of her and her husband’s ex partner and closest friend, Napoleon Solo. He brought her the gift certificate and assured her that everything would be perfect if she slipped away for a few hours. It didn’t take much convincing. Illya had squeezed her hand and she left him at the front door of their small house with a soft kiss, reassuring him that she would be back soon. This of course was starting to become debatable the longer Gaby laid on the massage table. Her muscles were being worked to perfection, causing her insides to run warm as all the tension started drifting away.

“This is much harder than I thought.” Napoleon’s voice is wavering and despite his best efforts, his brave demeanor was slowly dwindling down as the small girl tugging on his expensive pant leg started wailing again. Her crying spurred on her twin brother’s and the house was filled with the sound of screaming children. Toys were everywhere, scattered about the house giving off the illusion that a small bomb had gone off. Not to mention there was something sticky on his coat and something stabbing the underside of his shoe.

Nikolai’s screams match his sisters. Fraternal twins have blessed the Kuryakin household and how the two ex-spies manage to make it work, is something shy of a miracle in Napoleon’s eyes. He’s not sure how the two manage with two small children under the age of three. He would rather face his deadliest opponents blindfolded then babysit the Kuryakin twins alone.

“Peril,” Napoleon calls over the sound of wailing children. He tries to step forward but Natalya has her fists in his pant-leg. She’s clinging to him with fat tears rolling down her soft cheeks. Her skin is flushed and she has Gaby’s messy dark hair but definitely Illya’s attitude.

“Cowboy I am hurrying.” Illya’s voice is clipped over the sound of his children as he makes his way into the den. His arms are full of juice-boxes and snacks that he somehow manages to put down on the small playtable before picking up his son. Nikolai looks almost identical to Illya. His hair is a few shades darker but his eyes are that electric blue and his little hands are already forming fists as a temper tantrum threatens to breakloose. Bouncing his son carefully, Illya sits on the edge of the couch and takes a juicebox with his free hand, poking a hole into the top of it with the straw before handing it to his son. Nikolai’s screaming is quickly muted as he takes the box and works on the sugary substance. “See, easy.” Illya breathes out as Napoleon does the same for Natalya before taking a seat on the edge of a couch cushion. Not that it helps, the entire couch is a mess, with pillows half in and half out.

For a brief, blissful moment the Kuryakin house is silent.

“Got anymore of those preferably with something a little stronger?” The American asks as Illya passes him a juicebox of his own. Illya shoots him a quick glare before reaching over and patting down Natalya’s wild hair. The little girl moves away from her father and waits for Napoleon to sit before climbing up into his lap with no permission needed. Natalya lays back, her small head resting on the expensive lapel of Napoleon’s suit. She’s sticky and her cheeks are still wet but he let’s her get comfortable. If he was a better man, this would be a good glimpse into his future. However, Napoleon’s real love lies with great art and even better food. It’s hard to find things while living off the grid in a small country house south of Florence. He swallows down a quick gulp of apple juice as the front door opens. He doesn’t move though, Natalya is asleep, the box sliding out of her fingers and dribbling sticky sweet juice on his suit.

Gaby hums softly, sweeping inside the house like it’s a castle and not a small cottage. She smells of french lavender and something crisp and clean. Pulling her jacket off, she makes her way into the den a little further, whistling softly at the damage done to her house. There is crayon on the wall and toys everywhere. Nikolai scoots away from his father and instantly moves for his mother, hands up. Gaby leans in and picks up her son, pressing a loud kiss to his cheek just to see him shy away like Illya would. Nikolai buries his face in his mother’s neck as she passes by her husband, pressing a kiss to the top of Illya’s head. His blond hair is a bit of a wreck but no where near as bad as Napoleon’s hairstyle.

“So boys, I see you decided to redecorate.” Gaby grins and Napoleon rolls his eyes as Illya shakes his head, muttering something in Russian about how he would rather jump on a grenade then start cleaning up the disaster zone that has become their home.

“We went for a different approach in babysitting.” Napoleon grins as he stands, holding careful to Natalya as he puts both his and her juicebox down. The American is quick with his hands, delivering Natalya to Illya without so much as waking her. He pats his comrade on the shoulder and moves for Gaby. His lips press along her cheek and she grins to him.

“Thank you for my day,” She murmurs to Napoleon who is pulling back from her and moving to fix his ruined suit to the best of his abilities.

“Not a problem Gabs, next time though I’ll be sending a professional babysitter.”

Gaby raises a fine eyebrow towards him, “A professional babysitter?”

Napoleon is almost to the door as he looks over his shoulder at his ex-teammates, happy for a brief moment that they can lead something of a normal after-spy-life. Grinning softly he shrugs, “I bet Waverly could babysit in his old age. He did us after all.”

And with that, Napoleon is gone and Gaby looks to Illya with a tired smile, “If you take the twins up to bed, I will clean.” She informs him and it’s too good of a deal for him to pass up as he stands, shifting Natalya into one arm and taking Nikolai from her arms. He only pauses to kiss her forehead and promise her a helping hand before he’s gone to put both of the troublemakers to bed.


	35. Illya/Gaby - The World Is Jealous

**Prompt: A fic describing situations in which Gaby/Illya have received backlash from other people for daring to be a German and a Russian engaged in a relationship. PS- Love this blog and always look forward to updates. Thanks for your hard work!**

 

Their engagement is only a classic cover story but it doesn’t stop the waiter from making a snide comment or two. They start off as snippy and turn to sly insults that could almost be missed if they weren’t paying attention. Gaby’s hand closes over her wine glass and she’s trying to count the cars going by. The same dark blue wagon has gone around three times since they’ve started their dinner and their meal had yet to arrive. Illya sits across from her, outside of the beautiful Parisian restaurant where his gaze constantly flicks from the road, to Solo’s hiding place, to Gaby. He lets his gaze linger just a millisecond longer on the woman across from him. Her hand is closed tightly on the stem of the wine glass, fingers shaking the liquid about. He glances at the ring on her finger and then back to the waiter who is giving them a not-so-friendly look. 

“I don’t get why it’s his business.” She spits out the words carefully, keeping her voice low to avoid anyone overhearing their conversation. The restaurant is busy, buzzing with life and everyone is seated too close together, but it has the best view of the street where Gaby can sit across from Illya and wait for their mark. Gaby shifts in her seat, uncrossing her legs and recrossing them all over again. Her cream colored dress reflects the candle lights beautifully, but she has somehow already managed to get red wine on the front of it.

Illya looks away from the red stain on her dress and catches her gaze. She gives him a sharp look and repeats her words with a little more emphasis. Her voice is strained and she’s obviously upset, “It’s not any of his business.”

Her fingers absently play with the fake engagement ring. The little black pearl is still an active tracker, warm against her calloused fingers as she twists and turns the ring on her finger, trying to make herself remember they are on a mission. This is no time to lose her temper. She can’t help it, every time she gets close to the man across from her, something in the universe pulls them apart.

“Is not.” He can only nod in agreeance as the dark blue car makes its fourth trip, slowly cruising past them as Illya reaches for his own glass, but skips the wine and goes for the water instead. Gaby is on her second glass of wine and at this rate, she will finish his next before he can finish the water. With the glass against his lips he mutters softly with that low accented tone of his, “Four times, Cowboy. ”

Napoleon’s voice crackles over their little communications devices. Gaby flicks her gaze to the waiter as she puts down her glass and moves for Illya’s wine. The expensive red liquid is delicious and calming to her nerves. She feels her patience pushed a little more on the edge though when the waiter scoffs, making his way over to them.

“More wine Madam?” The waiter asks, quickly with a sharp tone to his voice as if he’s inconvenienced by speaking to her.

Gaby straightens a bit, “I would like more yes, leave the bottle.”

The waiter stiffens for a moment, pouring her drink as she leans on the table a little further. Before Illya can stop her, she reaches out and grabs the waiter’s white shirt. Her fingers curl in a little fist and she yanks the skinny man down to her level. Her teeth are grit as she speaks to him. A few patrons enjoying their dinner are watching now as Gaby spits out her words. Her teeth grind slightly as she threatens the man, “You will stop treating me and my fiance like we are common rats. Or I will deal with you, not him.” She cuts her gaze to Illya. Illya looks much more intimidating than Gaby. He stands nearly taller than most and has a cold stare that can calm even the wildest of fires. Still, there’s something much more threatening about a small German woman with her claws in his shirt.

“There will be no need Madam!” The waiter doesn’t blink at her threat as he yanks back from Gaby’s grip, “I will not serve Russian trash, nor you for laying with him. Do you not have any respect? German woman in love with a Russian man? You must really enjoy that iron curtain.”

Illya’s hands are shaking and he stands now, knocking his chair back so hard it falls into the guests behind them as he stands, the waiter backs away from the table and Gaby stands to grab onto Illya’s clenched fists. Her hands wrench his downwards and before she can shout something in her native tongue to the waiter, the sound of gunshots echoes. Patrons go screaming, glass shatters and the waiter is taken out by a stray bullet as the dark blue car takes off.

“They missed their target.” Napoleon’s voice echoes over the coms but Gaby has little to no remorse in her voice as she scoffs.

“I should send them flowers.” Her gaze cuts from the bleeding man to Illya who is still shaking. His pale face is red and his lips are pulled tight as she strokes the insides of his wrists with the pads of her thumbs.

“That was not kind.” Illya finally ground out the words but Gaby shakes her head as she steps into him and slides an arm inside of his jacket. With a soft squeeze she hugs him tightly. Her fake engagement pressing into his back as her head curls into his chest, “We should move before our guests come back to finish the job.”

He doesn’t squeeze Gaby back, just pulls away with a sad look touching his features. The waiter’s words still echoing in his head. All the terrible things his country has done to hers will shadow them indefinitely.


	36. Illya/Gaby - Please Wake Up

**Prompt: Imagine Illya gets hurt very badly (almost dies) and Gaby realizes that if she won't tell him that she loves him right now she might never get another chance. Everything turns out to be a happy ending:) P.S: YOUR WRITING IS JUST PERFECT❤️ - TW Blood , TW Violence**

 

The bullet wound is old, but still a deep dark angry red. In their haste to get out of Barcelona, he does a poor job of patching himself up and now it’s taking it’s toll on him. Illya’s jaw is clenched tight and his hands on the dash of the car are gripping so tight that Gaby can see his knuckles blooming white across the tops. His breathing is heavier and they’re too close to a mark to use the local hospital and it’s Gaby’s foot on the accelerator that has the car careening over a curve, practically running a red light to get them to the safe house. Napoleon is sliding around haphazardly in the back seat, hands gripping his map as he tries to direct her but Gaby’s focus is torn. She’s hardly watching the road. Instead she’s watching Illya and the way he is trying to mask his pain.

He was shot a little more than a day ago and since then, he had said nothing of the wound. No she can see it. His shirt is sticking to his side, black turtleneck wet with fresh blood. Her stomach churns because he’s losing color. His already pale skin looks deathly white and his eyes are glassy even as he evens his breathing out.

“Left here.” Napoleon shouts as she cuts across two lanes of traffic and nearly plows into the back of a contractor’s truck. Their small borrowed car slides down the back alleyway and Gaby cuts across another road without even looking. Her foot mashed all the way to the floor, dark hair sticking to the back of her neck. Determination sparks in her brown eyes when Napoleon gives her the next instruction and she parallel parks like a champion, pulling the emergency brake and sliding perfectly between two other cars. The whole cab of the car rocks to a stop before she cuts the engine and Solo is already out, pulling Illya out of the seat. Their Russian comrade can barely stand. His knees are shaking as he throws most of his weight onto Napoleon. Gaby brushes ahead of both of them, hands fumbling along the bricks to the safe house, finding the loose one and opening the door. It takes all her strength with Solo’s to get Illya into the house and onto the kitchen table. His blue eyes roll back and she feels her heart slam against the front of her rib cage, threatening to break free from fear alone. Fear that he won’t open his eyes again when Solo’s fingers ghost over his side. Illya jerks away, fighting them. Not wanting them to touch him. Solo ignores him all together, pulling up the turtleneck. He’s not as gentle as he should be and Gaby frowns when the sweater sticks to the red skin. There is fresh blood covering old and his skin swollen.

It looks infected.

Solo sets to work while Gaby fetches everything he needs. They go through almost an entire bottle of vodka and Illya has long sense stopped fighting them. It only drags her worry on when he closes his eyes and doesn’t fight. His muscles twitch and he lets out breathy moans, but there is no resistance. It can’t be a good sign. Not to her. Cars are different from people, and Gaby is out of her element while Solo patches their partner up. Blood smudges on to Napoleon’s expensive white shirt, but he doesn’t seem to care. Not until the bullet is free and Illya is stitched up. It’s only then he goes to wash his hands and change. The safe house is small and all Gaby can smell is the distinct metallic scent of blood. Illya’s blood.

He’s so pale when Solo leaves the room she’s not sure he’ll make it.

There’s a grim set in the American’s lips when Gaby asks him if Illya will wake up.

His lack of answer causes anger to burst low in her belly.

“He has to.” Gaby states like it’s a fact. “He has to wake up. We can not stay here.”

Her usual unwavering voice fails her. Her courage is chipping away with every heavy exhale and her fingers are moving for Illya. She wraps both hands around his wrist, squeezing him. There’s a faint pulse under her touch and she holds onto him making sure that he is still in life’s grasp.

“Nothing we can do about it. If he pulls through, he pulls through. If not, we call Waverly.” Napoleon doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t talk about how bad this could be, how long Illya could possibly have. Instead he puts space between the Russian and his little Chop Shop Girl. Oh, how the two keep dancing around one another, it was only a matter of time before one of them got hurt. Napoleon knows how they are, he know’s how they move around one another and now their little dance may never happen.

His answer makes her lips part, a silent sob ready to fall as he turns his back on her and walks away. Gaby turns her gaze down to Illya. He’s still breathing hard, eyes closed and sweat drawing up on his face. Her fingers don’t let go of him yet. She stood in the silence among the wreckage of the kitchen with dirty towels and a half-empty bottle of vodka spilling onto the floor. The world is silent except for the sound of his breathing. Gaby swallowed hard and leaned into him. Her hair slipping over her shoulder, brushing his cheek lightly as she pressed her forehead to his. His skin felt clammy under hers, making her brows knit together in a hint of worry as the tip of her nose touched his.

“Wake up,” She breathed against his mouth slowly, her voice almost silent as she let her lips ghost over his own, “C’mon my Russian friend.” She practically pleaded to him with a whisper. Voice desperate, throat constricting under the threat of a sob, “I love you, wake up. Wake up.”

The sob won as she kissed him. Their first kiss had been on a mission a few weeks ago. It was kiss or be caught by the enemy. Illya had been so careful with her, and here she was with the second kiss, being so careful with him.

He didn’t kiss her back and her knees gave out, hands still holding his as she sat on the floor with her arms stretched up to the table. His breathing kept up but he didn’t wake up for the rest of the night. He didn’t wake up until the mid-morning, Gaby hadn’t slept a wink. Her hair still disheveled, her dress still stained and her lips still burning from his, watching him. Napoleon had tried to make her leave, tried to make her switch positions with him every time he came to check Peril’s bandages, but she refused to move. When he finally did wake up, she almost missed it. He had been so quiet, his breathing evening out she almost missed the look of blue eyes catching onto her tired ones.

“Illya.” She said his name carefully and he turned his head up a bit, as if acknowledging her with the smallest of nods.

“Chop shop girl.” His voice cracks but he’s trying to make her smile. His hand turns over and his palm pressed against hers, his longer fingers catching her in a soft hold.

“You woke up.” She can’t hide the smile that’s pulling over her lips as she slides out of the kitchen chair and stands over him, for once taller than him. His grip on her is soft but his fingers squeeze her hand for just a second, reassuring her that he wants to keep his eyes open.

“Someone told me to.”


	37. Illya/Gaby - Setting Bones

**Prompt: Imagine Gaby being hurt on a mission and Illya taking care of her.**

 

“Ah!” Gaby shouts trying to yank her hand back, but Illya’s grip on her is much too strong. His fingers are holding tightly to her upper arm, dragging her up to the tips of her toes while he inspects the damage. They’ve only been done with the mission for an hour now, enjoying a very bumpy train ride back to their meeting point, but an injury has slowed them down.

“Will you be gentle! It hurts.” Gaby’s lips twist down into a pathetic pout, bottom lip trembling for a moment as Illya gently runs his fingers over the bruised skin. Her arm is most likely broken and she’s trying to yank it back from his grip. He doesn’t let go of her yet though. Instead he reaches up to the luggage rack and pulls down his bag. With one quick motion he has it on the floor of the train car and gently nudges it with his foot in Napoleon’s direction.

“Cowboy, would you get me the kit?” He doesn’t ask please, interrupting their american friend and his newspaper. Napoleon flips the paper down, looking down at his bruised nose at Illya before sighing and leaning down to pull out the first aid kit.

“Sure, Gaby is hurt and you stop everything for her. I take a torturing and you don’t even spare a glance.”

“Jealous Cowboy?” Illya asks, not quite taking his gaze off of Gaby’s arm. It needs to be set and wrapped, but there is very little he can do on the train. If he lets her go, she’ll never give her arm back to him. Instead of fighting him, she settles on scowling at him and if looks could kill, he would be six feet under. With careful maneuvering he manages to drag her and the first aid kit to the small bathroom attached to their rattling car. They leave Napoleon to watch the car as he leads Gaby inside first, closing the door behind them quickly and blocking the door with his bigger size incase she felt the need to run. After a moment or two of silence, she settles on a scowl and leans back against the small sink.

“It’s not that bad,” Gaby mutters under her breath, lips pulling into a tight line. She flinches trying to look tough and he can’t help but shake his head to her little facade.

“Is bad enough.” He assures her once again moving his hands down to her waist. This is the most contact they’ve had since Rome. His hands are careful with her, fingers spanning out across her hips with a wide grasp. Gaby turns her head up, her head is just below his jaw and she can smell something faint under his dark turtleneck. She thinks its gunpowder, but he moves her up and onto the edge of the sink, she doesn’t get a chance to lean in. Balancing her carefully, Illya lets go of her and his fingers instantly feel cold missing her warmth under the dress.

The train is a constant rattling around them. Gaby can feel the vibrations in her bones as she carefully holds herself on the sink, knees pressed together tightly as Illya inspects her arm. He is very careful with her, until of course he moves to set the bone. The unmistakable sound of her joints popping makes her shriek. Her yells are so loud that Napoleon kicks the bathroom door and Illya in turn pushes Gaby’s head into his chest. She bites onto his sweater and he sets the bone as carefully as he can on the moving train. A sob loses itself in his turtleneck and he tries not to feel guilty about patching her up. With her head still against his chest, Illya moves to start wrapping the arm, bracing it with what little supplies he has on hand. He wraps the dressing tight, letting his fingers touch her skin one more time before covering it up with the thick fabric. Once he has her wrapped up, he sets to make a sling for her. Her small head is still buried against his chest, her cheek turned away from him. She’s trying not to cry. Brave little chop shop girl can only grit her teeth against him as he crafts a sling for her with one of his under shirts. It’s messy but will do for now, at least until they can get back to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

“Is all okay now.” Illya mutters, thick accent washing over the crown of her head. She doesn’t move just yet. Instead he hears a soft sniffle and she doesn’t shy away. Instead she stays right there, pressing a little closer to his chest, broken arm between them. The train is rocking, the sound of the engines practically under them lulling Gaby into a sense of security. When she presses closer, he carefully wraps an arm around her back. His hand coming around and touching the bit of bare skin just under her sleeve. With his calloused fingers he draws little circles.

He can’t help himself.

She sighs and he doesn’t stop.


	38. Illya/Gaby - Envious Dance

**Prompt: Illya is the one to play the honeypot. Gaby thinks he wouldn't be available to do such a thing. However Illya is KGB's best for the right reasons. Funny. Jealous Gaby. Entreating Solo and Waverly, adorable Illya.  
**

 

Gaby’s grip on the railing tightened. Her knuckles turning white under the pressure as she grit her teeth, watching from the balcony as Illya leaned over the shoulder of an attractive woman and whispered something in her ear. Whatever it was must have been clever or charming because the blond turned her head back and laughed, red lips brightly mocking Gaby.

“Peril has moves,” Napoleon spoke up next to Gaby and she instantly unclenched her jaw. The mechanic forced herself to relax a little but it wasn’t happening. Napoleon thankfully hadn’t noticed yet, or if he did he had yet to say anything to Gaby. No doubt he was biding his time, just waiting to hold it over her head as leverage. Gaby barely scoffed at Solo’s words and instead leaned over the edge of the balcony railing a little more, spying the rest of the party. About two floor below them was a very large open pool area with a sprawling garden and so many flutes of champagne being passed around it was almost dizzying. The night was still young, barely pressing close to midnight and Illya had been working on the countess all of twenty minutes and already the woman was plastered to his side.

“He can’t pull this off,” Gaby tries not to scoff again, instead she settled for biting on the inside of her cheek and turning her attention to the rest of the party goers. She couldn’t force herself to watch Illya work along with this woman. The countess was tall and slender with more curves than Gaby could ever hope to have. She had that blonde hair that reminded her of early morning sun and while it should’ve been Napoleon down there in the party, it had to be Illya. Illya would distract the Countess and Napoleon would crack the safe. Gaby was simply a pointer on this mission. She was strictly set to observation and getaway driver, which only made her bite down a little harder on the inside of her cheek.

The music below picked up and Gaby’s brown gaze swung down once more, watching as her tall Russian comrade moved his hand out to the blonde. She took his hand and set her own glass down, wrapping her red painted nails around his palm just letting him guide her on the dance floor. Gaby’s stomach fell. It felt like she had swallowed a ball of lead, she could never get Illya to dance with her. Not that she had tried since their ‘dancing’ in Rome, but he never asked her to dance.

He never asked her much of anything. He did however stare. Whenever she turned her head too quickly, she always managed to catch him watching her. Watching her like an artist trying to trace a silhouette. Gaby watched his hand slide along the open back of the Countess’ dress and it was too hard to hide her face before Solo caught it.

“He’s the KGB’s best for a reason,” Solo drawled out the words as Gaby practically leaned over the iron rail of the balcony. Her gaze was narrowed and a list of curse words were sitting on the tip of her tongue as she watched Illya’s nose brush the side of the woman’s cheek. Her knuckles gripped tighter on the railing.

“This is Illya,” Gaby practically had to force the words out of her mouth, “He doesn’t do close.”

“I know, I’ve been watching him watch you for at least three months now.” Solo quipped and Gaby turned her head so quickly in his direction he was surprised she didn’t get some form of whiplash. Her dark hair fell from it’s neat bun, making a bit of a mess against the back of her neck, pieces of hair falling across her cheeks.

“What?” She lost her voice for a moment, color rising against her face as she tried to fight down the blush, holding on ot the anger instead. Anger that Illya was being so, so, – charming with the woman below. When half the time he wouldn’t even allow Gaby to brush her fingers over his when he tried to teach her chess.

“Oh come on now,” Her partner waved his hand, rolling his blue gaze from Gaby, back down to Illya. “Everyone can see how he is around you. Now here he is, using my move. That is my move.” Solo practically wiggles his fingers towards the couple on the floor, watching as Illya’s temple presses to the Countess’ own and he spins them carefully with the music. It’s such a beautiful motion that Gaby feels the pang of jealousy skitter across her nerves. Her lips press tightly into a thin line as Solo drags on and on about Illya needing work. Gaby doesn’t think he needs any work at all, she thinks he needs to let go of the Countess and never touch anyone else again. Her jealousy is scales a whole new height as the Countess leans in for what looks like a kiss.

Illya turns the woman and Gaby has the perfect view as the woman’s red lips move up and Illya’s head turns down. Before they meet, Gaby’s hands are on the railing and she’s screaming, “No!”

The music stops abruptly and Solo’s hands are on Gaby before every eye in the place can find them. He doesn’t give her the chance to blow their cover. Instead he has his palm clamped down over her lips and he’s dragging her off the balcony, kicking and screaming.


	39. Illya/Gaby - Traitor To The Wall

**Prompt: What about situation where Gaby's East Berlin, Russian hating friends find out she's dating a KGB agent?**

 

Gaby’s nervousness is practically tangible through the small communications devices. Illya can hear the way her breath hitches every few steps and through the lens of his scope he can see how her hands clench and un-clench. She’s walking a dangerous line like all spies do in their line of work. Only she’s still new and her skin isn’t as thick as his own as she paces close to the wall.

Too close, she’s too close – Her heartbeat is so loud Gaby wonders if Solo and Illya can hear it through her earpiece. Her throat is dry and her fingers are shaking as she holds tight to her couture clutch, her sundress much too bright against the shades of grey that echo around East Berlin. U.N.C.L.E. needs information and the only one with connections on the other side of the wall is their young mechanic, with her old friends practically foaming at the mouth for a chance to escape. Gaby reached out to a few of them, slipping letters into the city undetected, promising a safe extraction for anyone willing to trade secrets. Only one of them responds and Gaby is set to meet him, but she’s nervous being so close to the wall and all her fears of being captured and labeled as a traitor come to the surface and she has to force herself to swallow them down.

There’s a slight tapping to her left near the edge of the wall. There’s a smuggling point a few feet away from where she stands and as the silence of the dusk falls around them, Gaby hears the sound of an old friend.

“Tomas!” His name easily leaves her as she crosses the sidewalk to the meeting point. A man stands a good head taller than her with his blue coveralls coated in thick motor oil. He looks as nervous as she feels, his face pale and his eyes are constantly moving, never settling. Not even on her face when she leans up on the tips of her toes to catch his gaze.

“Gaby,” He says her name like it’s a little blessing and his face splits into a relieved smile. He moves to hug her but something stops the older man. He has more gray in his dark brown hair than the last time she had seen him and his eyes are very dark circles under them. His hands clasp down on her shoulders, careful of her expensive sundress and his dirty mechanic hands, “It’s so good to see you but you shouldn’t be back here.”

“I know, but we need information.” She fiddles with the fake engagement ring on her finger. Illya is tracking her movements and she knows Solo can see her from his position, she is somewhat safe even if she is in enemy territory, “So we’re going to get you out of here for information but you have to trust me.”

It’s hard for her to talk about trust. It’s been a year and she’s only just starting to find her so called sea-legs with the spy business. She wonders time to time if her partners even trust her fully, but she doesn’t let herself linger on those thoughts as she reaches a hand up and does a soft hand-signal almost like a yawn, but she’s signalling to both her partners that it’s time to move. Carefully she guides Tomas away from the wall and moves for a side-street, walking along side him like a young lady would on a date, with her head down and low, avoiding prying eyes from any potential East German police officers wanting to dig a little too deep into her false cover.

“Peril, meet them down at the end of the alley, I’ll get the car.” Napoleon’s voice crackles over the communications devices in their ears. Illya packs up his place and moves to the end of the last alley, his shoes echoing off the wet concrete as Gaby and Tomas move across a street.

“You are really going to get me out of here, yes?” Tomas asks low, close to her ear. His voice is nervous, shaking almost and she can understand his fear because she feels it across her own nerves. She’s petriefied they will make her stay. That they will leave her on the other side of the wall to waste away in a gray land. She tries not to linger on those thoughts, Illya would never spoil the mission.

Most of all she likes to believe that he would never leave her like that.

She takes a deep breath and nods softly, humming out her answers quietly, “Yes, but you have to give up the information to U.N.C.L.E. and they will help you. You have to trust me.” Her voice is low as her hand clasps down on his coveralls and she sees a shadow at the end of the alleyway. Even from so far away, she can see the outline that is Illya. He is very tall with that hat pulled low over his golden head.

Relief floods her system and she picks up the pace. Freedom is only ten or twelve feet away and she smiles when Illya steps forward, reaching for her. Her hand slips away from Tomas and she slides into his reach. Illya’s arm circles around her waist and he pulls her up to the tips of her toes as he presses a kiss to her forehead. He smooths away the wrinkles carefully, whispering a quiet word of encouragement before letting her go and reaching a hand out to shake Tomas’ own but the mechanic takes a step back.

“He’s Russian.” Tomas states the obvious and Gaby turns in Illya’s hold, confusion crossing her features before she opens her mouth to object but Illya beats her to it.

“Yes, I work with U.N.C.L.E.” Illya nods but Tomas is shaking his head feverishly and his native language leaves his mouth as he cuts a dark look to Gaby.

“You’re selling me out to the Russians!” He shouts and Gaby cringes because he’s going to blow their mission as he backs away from them throwing an accusing finger at Gaby, cursing at her. He calls her a traitor to the country. He calls her Russian trash and Illya’s hands start shaking and Napoleon’s cursing in the coms, the sound of tires screeching echoes in the background.

“We’re trying to help you!” Gaby pleads, wanting to help her old comrade get over the wall like she did. Only Tomas doesn’t listen. He’s backing away into the street now, into full view of anyone who might be out and about, shouting at them, blowing the mission.

“No, you are a German traitor!” He shouts the word traitor and Gaby swears the entire country can hear the mechanic scream it and she has to grip her hands on Illya’s wrists, dragging him back to the opposite side of the alley where the sound of screeching tires gets louder and a black car screeches to a halt not far from them. Napoleon waves to them from behind the steering wheel and Gaby looks from Solo to Tomas, the sound of sirens are now echoing over the night air.

Her heart is slamming against her rib cage now and her grip on Illya is almost too tight because the Russian man is now prying at her fingers, “We need to save him.”

Illya is shaking that golden head of his, “No, we must go. Mission is blown.”

“I can’t leave him!” She shouts even though Tomas is slurring her name and Illya’s in the street. Solo smacks his palm on the horn and Gaby jumps before Illya is dragging her towards the car. Their mission is blown and Gaby feels the edge of shame sinking into her bones as she cuts her gaze to Illya’s in the back seat of the car. She never regretted kissing him in Barcelona, or falling into his sheets in Paris, but now she feels just the pang of shame for betraying her country. In all fairness, Germany never did anything for her when Illya held her up. 

Napoleon takes off on an exit route and Illya’s hand finds hers. His palm swallows hers and she pushes away the shame, replacing it with thoughts of a new plan of escape, “Alright Solo, my turn to hold the map.”


	40. Illya/Gaby - Doting Father-To-Be

**Prompt: Pregnant Gallya? Illya as a doting, loving, funny father to be to the mother of his child?**

 

They’re in Greece, his hand is on the small of her back where the skin is exposed from the cut of her dress. Wherever his hand settles she feels her temperature rise a few degrees and when she looks up at him, he gives her the smallest of smiles. It’s a subtle turn of his lips that is only reserved for her and Gaby smiles back for a moment, raising both brows, “Can we go?” She whispers the words softly.

The sun is high overhead and Illya can see the redness shining across her cheeks and forehead when she turns towards him. Gaby turns her head in and lays it carefully against the front of his chest for a moment, sniffing softly then makes a face. Her nose crinkles and she pulls back from him, shaking her dark head, “Your cologne is awful,” She emphasizes on the words as she backs up from him, hand on her belly. He can only shake his head to her.

“Same cologne. Your nose is just like a bloodhound right now.” He watches her laugh at his words as she pulls away from him. His hand automatically falls from her back to catch her own hand where his fingers tangle with hers. He takes great care of her, never lingering too far away. Waverly pulled strings, his defection to the KGB turned sour over a year ago, but now the waters were calming and now, now he has Gaby. The ring on her finger is very real and even though they’re not married yet, he plans on changing that in their future together.

Gaby makes a face and runs her free hand over her belly once more, pausing to push on the side of her bump. Her teeth grit together for a moment and then the moment passes. Illya’s brows raise and concern floods his system for a moment. He treated her carefully before she was pregnant but now, he treats her as if she is more fragile than a piece of well-crafted crystal, “Gaby…”

His voice lingers for a moment as he watches her run her palm over the underside of her belly. The dress she wears is soft and billowing in the summer breeze of the beautiful country, but he worries she is uncomfortable until she lets go of his hand and waves at him, “It’s fine.” She assures him with a shake of her dark head, “She is just moving too much. She doesn’t want to settle.”

Illya’s lips turn up, last week she called the baby a boy, this week it’s a girl. Gaby continues to change her mind, never once asking the countless doctors they visit for the actual sex of the baby. He watches Gaby take a waddle-like step forward and down away from the pier of the ocean front. He lingers back a step just to watch her before he catches up, his hand finds hers again.

“She sounds like her mother.” Illya indulges Gaby who smiles and keeps her other hand perched perfectly on her belly. They are down to the last three months. All of her swollen ankles and fingers will fade and eventually she will feel like herself again, but until then she has Illya. He is more than willing to bring the moon to her with her current condition. Just the night before she woke up with a hunger so fierce she had practically shaken him awake, begging for the sour taste of kraut and trout, then after he had gone to every market on the corner – she had practically begged him for the sweet taste of quarkkaulchen with extra powdered sugar. Of course the ex-KGB agent had done it all for her. He had sliced and baked the whole cuisine for the mother of his child, only to climb the stairs and find her once more asleep. Mouth open, with a touch of drool leaving her lips as she slept propped up on a mountain of pillows he had crafted just for her.

A sigh left his lips and she muttered in her sleep, something of potato dumplings – and he went back to the store.

Gaby eases herself up to the car to go home, home being another safe house while they wait to extract Solo from his current mission. Her hip presses over the passenger door and she holds herself there for a moment, the car keeping her upright for now as a twinge of pain goes down her lower back. Being pregnant is a mix of constant emotions and twinges of pains, not to mention days of swollen feet and tears that come from nowhere. Illya knows this and he also knows when she no longer wants to wear shoes because now he kneels at her feet without asking and carefully slips off her small shoes. Tucking them under his arm he turns his head up and she smiles down at him.

“You are my hero.” She mouths the words softly, letting her toes wiggle across the warm pavement of the sidewalk. Before he stands, Illya kisses the front of her dress just above the small bellybutton poking out. A small jerk of her stomach has his eyes wide and Gaby throws her head back and laughs, “Well it seems she liked that.”

He glances from Gaby back to the round curve of her belly and leans back in. His mouth presses another soft kiss to the same spot and a small kick follows it just before he mutters something in Russian against her dress. Gaby raises both brows but he doesn’t answer her just yet. Instead he takes her hand and stands, opening the car door for her. Illya goes to great lengths to make sure Gaby is comfortable before he takes his place in the driver’s seat.

“What did you say to her?” Gaby asked curiously as the car pulled away from the curb and eased into traffic. Illya shifted gears and turns his golden head over to her own, smiling softly.

“I simply asked her to take after me and not you.”


	41. AU - Star Wars

**Prompt: Imagine Gallya, in a galaxy far...far...away. Star Wars AU**

 

Her face is on every poster this side of the planet. A wanted sign loud and clear to the public with a hefty reward scribbled underneath in multiple languages. Reaching back, Gaby pulls her hood up over her dark brown hair and tugs it down a little lower as she disappears into the crowd of the market. The air on this planet is heavy, smoke from the market fills the street and she flits stand to stand, fingers brushing along goods, pocketing a few of them here and there until her pockets feel heavy. She steals only enough to survive on. Being greedy is not worth getting caught.

Her short stature lets her weave in and out of the crowd mostly undetected. She flits around a particularly large form and reaches the booth at the far end of the bazaar. The smell of oil is thick around this particular table and there’s a display of little metal trinkets across the table, all parts. Parts to ships that people have scavenged. Her fingers smooth over a few compressor parts, reaching over a bolt and wraps her fingers around a teeny tiny engine module. It’s light and has sharp silvery edges that sparkle when she pulls it up to her face. Before her hand can get any higher, a purple-colored hand clasps on her wrist tightly and yanks her down towards the table. A heavy accent laces the menacing words thrown at her, “Are you going to pay for that girl?”

Her skin is practically bruised under the force as she attempts to yank her hand back. The vendor doesn’t budge and she reaches at her side and yanks her satchel free. A few spare peggats fall onto the table along with two food portions. It’s all she has that she hasn’t stolen from any wandering pockets and it’s not enough. The vendor shouts something before she can even attempt to bargain with him. He shakes her arm and her hood falls back. They’re attracting too much attention and Gaby’s hand tightens on the little engine module before she throws her other hand up. There is a small crowd watching them now as she pushes at his face. A sharp gasp leaves the man holding her and she throws him back with what looks like an invisible wall. The table shakes and the people around her are shouting now. There’s sirens in the distance and Gaby yanks her hood back up before running through the crowd. She leaves her satchel behind and holds onto the little engine module so tight that it bites into her palm. It’s the last piece she needs to get off the planet. If she can just hop to the next set of stars she can start over. No more criminal business, no more chopping up ships and stealing cargo for a living. No, there’s a whole galaxy out there with her name on it and she just has to get off the muggy planet with it’s endless nights and purpling skies.

Sirens carry on but Gaby is fast on her feet. She zips in and out of the crowd, down a back alleyway and hops up over a forgotten trash can, scaling the side of a small apartment complex with it’s jagged bricks and low window sills. She makes it around the edge of the building and slides down the rest of the way, her feet smacking down hard on the soggy ground. Her knees shake and she carries on, running for the small garage off the edge of the community. Gaby dares a glance over her shoulder and misses completely when a person steps out in front of her. She collides hard with something warm and the impact has her down on the ground almost instantly. Her hood falls off and the back of her head smacks the ground. She sees stars, brown eyes blurry for a moment as she blinks a few times. The small engine module slips from her grip and she sucks in a sharp breath, trying to make her lungs work again. A handsome face looms down over her, confusion across his brow. His hair is military cut, his uniform is police made, she can see the thick armor plate reading off his office number and her stomach does a free fall.

“You?” He seems to connect the dots, gun in hand with his finger near the trigger as he glances from one of the wanted posters back down to her. She thinks he’s handsome and then quickly smothers out the thought because he’s going to arrest her and she’ll never make it off the planet if she goes to jail. Her fingers smooth along the ground and she finds the little engine module but not before his foot kicks it out of the way first. The little piece of metal glints in the light and Gaby quickly rolls over, forcing herself up to her feet. She wobbles for a moment and he reaches for her. His badge has his name in an old form of cyrillic she’s only seen a handful of times. She can barely make out his name before she says it.

“Illya?” Her voice is a little more breathy than she would like it to be and saying his name catches him off guard as his handsome brow furrows and he reaches out as if to take a hold of her hand, but Gaby is much faster. She steps back from him.

“Gabriella Teller, you’re under arrest for crimes of theft, ship-jacking, and breaking several more laws than I care to list.”

He has a heavy accent and when he says her name, her heart stutters for a moment. She pushes all those thoughts aside though as she yanks her hand back and takes a step back from him, “No way! That’s not what’s going to happen. I have to get off the planet!” She shouts all her frustration, bangs falling into her eyes as she glances past him. There is an unattended cruiser behind him, only a few feet away and she forms the plan quickly, recklessly throwing her hands up to push him back. Force – force, she had used it before. Only a few times, she couldn’t explain it. No one in her family was from Jedi, they were all career criminals stretched out along the many galaxies. Still something woke up inside of her, a sharp knowing, a burning sensation along the end of her nerves telling her to go. Illya stepped forward, blaster dangling from his fingers but she shoved her palm forward and collided right with his chest. The impact was hard enough to hurt her palm, then she pushed with all her mind and he faltered back. She pushed him away like he was nothing more than a fly in her way. The very tall officer fell back into the nearby trashcan. The sound of metal clanging against his armor echoed in the alleyway and Gaby took off. He fired at her, the heat of the energy burst behind her burned through her scraps of clothing but he missed. She stole a glance over her shoulder and he was back up, standing now, running for her.

He was like a giant in the small condense streets and she turned away from him climbing over the edge of the cruiser. The engine roared to life under her and she pulled away from the broken down alleyway, turning to speed past him, but the officer reached out, yanking hard on the edge of the passenger side. The whole vehicle slowed, she lost air pressure, the unit faltered and Gaby stomped on the accelerator hard. He ground out a few choice words at her, trying to reach for her. Somehow the officer got his hand on her, the cruiser let out a high pitched squeal as the engine overheated. The sweet scent of coolant flooded Gaby’s nose and she tanked the wheel hard to the left and they crashed into the apartment building on his side. Illya groaned, head hitting the dash, blood slipping into his golden hair and Gaby screamed as he reached for her. His hand practically covered her whole leg as she tried to escape, slipping out of the vehicle. He followed. It was like trying to lose her own shadow. Sweat slipped down her cheeks along with the hot prick of tears as she fell to the ground. He climbed out of the small cruiser ship and fell down on shaky knees next to her. His breathing was hard and he moved his legs on either side of her smaller form, “Gabriella Teller,” He breathed her name out hard, blood slipped down his perfect nose as he tried to reach behind him for cuffs.

She sobbed, “I have to get off the planet, please, please.” She sucked in a sharp breath but it wavered. Her hands moved up and she grabbed onto his pretty face, calloused fingers tracing a scar close to his eye. He flinched but didn’t take his eyes off of her.

“You are under arrest,” He continued on, “For the stripping of regulated ships, smuggling goods and services off planet.” He carried on, voice never faltering as she tried to hold back tears. One slipped free and slid down her soft cheek, cutting through dirt and grime. The tear caught his attention and he looked from the small trail it left on her cheek back to her gaze. He stopped talking and she let her thumb rest against the scar on his eye. The lights overhead were turning on as the sirens in the distance came closer and closer. He was bathed in an orange color glow, looming above her like a dark cloud.

“I have to get off the planet,” She repeated, not telling him why she needed to get off. Her hands were warm, surprisingly small against him. She was small under him and something about the shape of her mouth had him lost temporarily. All the training in the world hadn’t prepared him for this little criminal.

Sirens grew louder and Illya growled low in his throat. He sat up, pulling her hands away from his face. Instead he grabbed onto her wrists and hauled her up with him. He scooped down and picked up the small metal module, thrusting it in her face, “You go and you take me with you.” He dangled the piece in front of her. Confusion slipped across her face and she struggled for a moment.

“What?” She stood there, confounded by the officer’s bargain with her. He was letting her go on the condition that he came too. She watched as he backed away from her, module in hand as he used his free hand to yank off his communicator device. He tossed it into the trashcan and then moved to his left arm, pulling off the GPS unit attached to him just above an old fashion watch.

“You take me with you, Little Chop Shop.” His blue gaze cut across the alleyway to her, “You get me off planet and I’ll give you your little metal piece.”

“I need that piece for my ship.” She answered.

He nodded, “Then you need me as well. Let’s go, they’ll be here soon.”

“Why should I take you with me? Why not just arrest me?”

“You must be only criminal in galaxy complaining I do not arrest you.” He rolled his eyes, still tearing off pieces of his armor. His exposed arms had faint scars etched across them and a few dark inky colored tattoos, he wasn’t from this planet. He had the signs written all over him, he had been taken from his own planet at a young age, sold off like cattle on a cargo ship. Torn from his parents, but the little criminal didn’t need to know that. She had something about her though, something he couldn’t quite put his fingers on, but she had it. A strange sense of energy buzzed around her, she outshined the stars around them. 

Gaby swallowed hard and nodded to him, making up her mind just as a spotlight swooped past and sirens grew louder. She didn’t ask him about the tattoos and he didn’t tell her, he just took her hand when she held it out to him and they ran for it.


	42. Illya/Gaby - Not So Common Cold

**Imagine Illya being sick and trying to hide it from his partners, but than it gets really bad and Gaby has to take care of him. Established!gallya P.S: I really love your blog!:3**

 

It starts with a sniffle. He’s bent over his rifle’s scope, peering through the red lens when the tickle hits him. He sniffs softly and it echoes in the coms, but Napoleon and Gaby say nothing as they clasp hands and play their parts. Despite her relationship with Illya, for the mission she is the American’s wife and they are counting the seconds til their mark is blissfully unaware they can make off with the intelligence for U.N.C.L.E.

The sniffle turns into a harsh sneeze in the getaway car. Gaby’s foot is pushed hard down onto the accelerator and her right hand shifts from second to third, to fifth without even a careful glance over shoulder as she speeds through the streets of Prague. The tires squeal and he hopes the sound covers the rumble in his chest where he feels like he’s inhaled an ocean full of salt water. His lungs feel heavy, but he pushes off his partners wander gazes and instead rolls the back window down in the small car and aims out. He fires twice. The sound of the silencer lets off a faint pinging noise before tires squelch behind them and then the headlights are gone as the car is thrown off their tail. Illya heaves himself back inside the back of the car and rolls the window up, meeting Gaby’s gaze in the rear view mirror before burying his running nose in the collar of his jacket.

The next morning his left ear aches. It feels swollen and tender when he reaches up to touch it. He pushes all the pain aside and heaves himself out of the hotel bed. He’s alone, Gaby is in Solo’s room to keep up appearances and for once he’s thankful she’s not in bed. He doesn’t want her to know how his skin feels when he wipes his hand across his brow, and he doesn’t want her to see the sweat that has sank into his pillow. The KGB Agent drowns himself in a hot shower and it takes the edge off for now.

Gaby glances up from her coffee cup. She’s freshly showered, dressed, and Solo is pinning her hair back with careful hands when Illya enters their suite. Breakfast is laid out on different room service carts, fresh fruit and crepes are sitting open for Illya but he bypasses them, trying to hold a cup of coffee with steady hands, but he’s shaking. His steps are messy compared to his usual ways. Gaby reaches up and gently takes a hold of Napoleon’s wrist, stopping his movements in her hair. He looks down at the little mechanic and leans down. Illya watches as they whisper back and forth and wants to say something to them, but he wonders if they’re talking loud and the thumping in his ears is making him deaf.

He tries to focus on his coffee in hand. His hands are shaking holding the cup and he barely can hold the spoon to still as he tries to stir in something to sweeten it. Giving up, he tosses the small spoon on to the table and takes a sip. The coffee is black and bitter over his tongue, but it does nothing to the scratchy feeling in his throat, “Stop talking about me,” Illya murmurs over his cup.

“We’re not talking about you,” Gaby assures him as she pulls away from Solo and takes off the fake wedding ring. She sets the little gold band on the table and stands, “I was simply telling Solo to take today to himself. I’m going to stay here with you.”

“No,” Illya jerks his blond head back, “No deviating from mission. All is fine.” He is lying, his lungs feel heavy and his breathing is limited. He knows his voice is lower than usual, the tickle in his throat feels like sandpaper in his mouth and he can’t stand straight without leaning on a piece of furniture.

“Illya,” Gaby’s voice is soft when she moves around the breakfast table. Her hair is no longer pinned back, but now down around her shoulders as she reaches him, hand on his cheek. He’s burning up and her hand is cool. His blue eyes roll up and flutter shut. She gasps something he can’t hear but then he feels Napoleon lifting him. Illya gives into his partners. One on is either side of him with his arms stretched over their backs. He leans more on Solo, bones heavy and head fuzzy. He can’t find his footing, he can barely catch a fresh breath of air. Everything around him is thick and heavy, dizzying. The next time he opens his eyes, Gaby is leaning over him. It’s like an angel descending over him, light behind her making a halo over the crown of her head and her are are full of worry. He can see the way her brow creases when she talks to him, but he can’t hear her. He can only see her lips move. He pretends faintly that she’s reciting old Russian rhymes like his mother used to. He leans back into the pillow and he can feel her cool hand on his forehead again.

He sleeps for what feels like an eternity. His body gives in to the exhaustion and all his tense muscles are slack against the mattress. Something wakes him up, a soft humming and a cool hand runs through his hair. Reaching up, Illya grabs onto the slender rest and he can feel Gaby’s fingers curl against his sweat slicked hair. His eyes don’t even have to open, he knows the smell of her soap and he knows the feeling of her calloused fingers against his scalp. The bed is warm where she hasn’t left him and he can hear her murmuring something now. The pounding sound in his ears is gone, his ear ache has faded to a dull throb that no longer hinders his hearing and his chest feels lighter, the feeling of saltwater in his lungs is gone.

“You’ve been asleep on and off for about two days.” Gaby whispers against his forehead as she presses a kiss to his wrinkled brow. The small gesture smooths away the wrinkles and he mutters something softly in his native tongue. Gaby asks him a question and he loves the way her words fall on his skin, happy to have his senses back he reaches up and tangles a hand in soft hair. She smiles against his brow and leans down kissing the bridge of his nose before pulling back. His fingers thread away from her hair and then he opens his eyes. He blinks a few times, vision blurry, but then Gaby comes into focus. She looks like she hasn’t slept much at all, with dark circles under her eyes and a tired smile. Still, her little smile makes his heart skip a beat and he can’t imagine days without it.

“Just a sniffle,” He assures her quietly and she shakes her head giving him a hard thump on the chest with her closed fist, fingers uncurling to take hold of him.

“Illya.” The way she says his name tells him he’s in a sense of trouble. His relationship with the small German woman is still new. He’s still learning pieces of her, bit by bit, she consumes him. It’s a slow burn that he encourages. Reaching up he covers her hand with his own, thumb rubbing over her knuckles. He takes a deep breath and revels in the feeling of a clear nose. The scent of tea and medicine is thick in the room, and when he looks over he sees a small stack of magazines along with balls of tissues, a spare mug of tea and what looks like bottles of aspirin and other medicines. Gaby squeezes his hand once more and she sighs softly, “We were worried about you. I made Solo practically visit every pharmacy this side of the city. Our mark must think me the illest woman in the country.” She gives him another squeeze and he feels his heart drop at the idea of her worrying over him. 

“It is okay now,” Illya nods but Gaby shakes her head again.

“No more of this. No hiding anything like this from me. From any of us. Solo and I? We’re your partners. Not your enemies.” The way she says it makes him remember sitting on the Vinciguerra’s island, where the orders rang out loud and clear in his head, kill the others if necessary. Gaby was right though, they were U.N.C.L.E. now and she was his now, they were partners. He swallows hard, thankful for her when she hands him a warm mug of tea and holds his head up.

Pulling the mug away he gives in to the feeling of her fingers on the back of his neck and nods once more, “I understand, I am sorry.”

Another one of those small smiles and then she kisses him before making a soft joke about sharing germs. Illya mutters something about being impervious to germs and Gaby laughs out loud, burying her face in the crook of his neck.


	43. Illya/Gaby - Accidental Future

**gallya: accidental pregnancy, Illya not knowing, gaby's morning sickness and symptoms show in the middle of a mission and was hiding it from Illya, possibly endanger the entire mission... curious how this would play out thankssss**

 

She loses the contents of her stomach on the plane. She’s stuffed in the small bathroom like a sardine, sweat is has soaked into the collar of her dress and she can’t seem to catch her breath. The world in her little bathroom is spinning. A knock comes to the small panel door and Gaby jerks her head up for a moment, lips parting as she replies the toilet is occupied. She runs the sink and splashes her face before blotting it away just to open the door to a concerned looking American.

Solo leans back in the small juncture of the plane, he looks so tall in the small cabin that it’s a wonder he and Illya were able to fit on the plane at all.

“Solo,” She murmurs running the paper towel over her face before balling it up in her fist.

He glanced at her hand and then trailed those striking blue eyes up the shape of her arm to her face, raising a fine brow, “Feeling alright Gaby?”

“Fine,” She grounds out the words, catching her breath and shooting him a sugary sweet smile, “Just not feeling well, must be the breakfast you made,” and she leaves him there in the small cabin, heading back for the business class where Illya sat with his knees near his chest and a permanent pout pulling at his lips. He looked miserable when she sat down and he instantly moved up a bit, as if he could give her more room in the small plane.

“You alright for mission?” He whispered softly with his heavy accent hanging from his words. She swallowed softly and nodded, ticking days off in her head as Illya handed her a folder. Gaby flipped through the pages, fingers playing with the paperclip on the side, thumbing through the war criminal they would be bringing down in Madrid. A man by the name of Javier with a smile so sweet Gaby could feel her teeth aching from looking at the black and white photo. Her stomach churned softly and she shifted in her seat, sucking in a deep breath of the artificial air conditioning before spying her new identity.

“Oh joy, who is my lucky fiance?” The small German woman swung her gaze up and Illya’s cheeks went a soft pink color.

—-

Gaby’s dress is squeezing her too tight. She inhales and exhales slowly, pacing in front of the vanity that’s set in her shared room. Illya fixes his tie and watches her go back and forth, fingers pulling at the fabric. He adjusts his tie once more before smoothing his hand over the front of it, “You seem worried.” He mutters, watching her in the mirror before turning to face her.

She’s a work of art in a golden dress that shimmers every time she moves. The ring on her finger is gold and set with a champagne colored pearl that he has switched on to track her movements for the evening. Her hair is pulled back, tied high with curls framing her face and he hates to admit it but Solo has picked the better dress. Gaby pauses her pacing for just a moment before nodding, reaching up to fix the bangs she’s pushed out of place.

“I am fine.” She breathes carefully, hands stretching across her chest, fingers pulling at the fabric. “I think I’m being squeezed alive.”

His mouth ticks with the thought of a smile and he moves towards her. His suit is new and a deep dark blue that’s so dark it looks black. She watches as he closes the space between them and wraps an arm around her middle. He’s warm and inviting, pulling her into him with a gentle nudge. Gaby obliges him all too easily, they rarely get time together on missions. His hands trace the outline of her hips and he drags his hands up, palms running over her sides before sliding over the curve of the bustier under the dress. Gaby leans into the feel of him only to pull back at the sudden soreness against his hold. He watches her carefully, leaning down and running his warm lips over her temple, “I could take the dress off…”

It’s a rare moment indeed between them when he makes such a suggestion, voice low and full of honey thick sweetness. She flushes a soft shade of pink, wanting to pull on his tie. Her fingers smooth over his tie, playing with the idea of pulling him in for a kiss before the knock on the door comes. Illya presses a kiss to her cheek and leaves her to answer the door. Solo is there to pick up his wife for the evening.

Gaby sighs and takes his arm for the evening.

They make a stop at the front desk, Gaby needs extra towels and some toiletries, Solo calls for champagne upon their return.

The rest of the night goes smoothly. They make it into the art show which is filled with nothing but priceless stolen works of art that makes Solo’s fingers itch and Gaby’s stomach churn. She holds the same glass of wine all night as they take a turn about the room. Illya moves room to room with his searching gaze, muttering quietly into the communications link between them all that he’s found Javier and the game between the agents and the man begins.

—-

Javier is taken with Gaby. He flirts with her uncaring of her married status with the charming American. Gaby flirts back while the boys take on his security, learning the ins and outs of his museum and the storage below. She is careful not to drink, careful not to think on the dark thoughts that are eating at her subconscious. A thousand and one questions are building up in her pretty little head and she can barely contain them when they make it back to the hotel. She makes the taxi driver pull over halfway there so she can throw up in the street. When Solo looks at her, she mutters something of too much champagne and they move on.

The test is waiting on her when they make it to the front desk. She folds it up into the fresh towels and leaves Solo at the elevators.

The test says positive.

Gaby pulls the trash can close and kneels over it.

The world around her is slowly pulling apart at the seams.

—-

The champagne is open when she gets out of the bathroom, Solo passes her a glass but she simply slips off the golden wedding ring and asks Illya to help her out of the dress. The dress is tight, zipper just out of her reach and he agrees, following her into the bedroom that she and Solo share. He takes his time, dragging the zipper down the slope of her back and tracing the outline of it on her skin with a calloused finger. He peels the dress away and she steps out of it standing in white lingerie that he averts his eyes from.

“You’ve seen me naked my Russian friend.” She muses softly to him, her soft accent cutting through the room. He’s still the gentlemen between the three of them and looks away as she loses the bra and plucks one of Solo’s discarded shirts, buttoning it up. The white shirt drops to her thighs and he clears his throat, and she watches as he lowers his gaze to her legs before she crosses the distance and kisses him. It’s quick and hurried before she pulls back, “When we finish the mission, I’ll wear your shirt.”

She pulls back from him and leaves him for the sitting room, where Solo makes a comment of his clothes looking better on the floor and she pours that glass of champagne in his lap.

Gaby gets up countless times in the middle of the night. Sleep does not come easy.

—-

Javier is on to them.

He knew from the beginning. He is waiting on Gaby before taking a shot at her. The chase begins. Gaby chases him down, running through the halls of the art museum. Her heels are loud of the tile floor, echoing on the walls like gunshots.

Black spots fill her vision but she presses on, chasing Javier down a level and firing off a few shots at him. The muzzle of her gun flashes in the darkness of the museum, but the man shouts something at her. Gaby’s lungs can’t seem to hold enough air. A wave of nausea rolls through her belly and her knees knock together.

There are more black spots and her gun is suddenly too heavy in her hand.

Javier gets away, but not before taking a shot at her. The bullet grazes her shoulder, rips her dress and knocks her off kilter. Gaby hits the floor and the sudden impact steals the breath from her. She feels a heavy pull at her waist, her back aches heavily and she groans out a soft german curse.

—-

Solo is on to Javier with a high powered scope that sits atop of a new weapon U.N.C.L.E. is developing. He watches Gaby go down and warns Illya. The Russian leaves his post at the back entrance of the museum and goes for Gaby. There isn’t much blood, but she isn’t moving much. Her breathing is quick and shallow, sweat sparkles against her skin in the low security lighting of the museum.

“I missed him,” She manages to get the words out, “I had Javier and I missed him.”

Illya’s palm smooths over her bangs and he pushes them out of her face as he pulls her up onto his knees.

“Is okay,” He manages the words, fingers carefully prodding at her wound. Gaby winces and moves a hand down to her stomach, fingers gripping at the fabric of her dress, “Are you hit?”

He moves her hand off of her stomach, searching for a bloodstain, searching for another wound. She shakes her dark head and moans softly, “Something isn’t right.”

He watches as her hand smooths over her hip, pressing into her lower stomach and down the front of her dress. Confusion washes over the Russian giant and he frowns, “Gaby, how long?”

“Prague maybe?” She inhales sharply and a hysterical laugh leaves her lips, “Maybe even that last trip to London.”

“That was a month ago…. Oh,” He forms the words and Gaby nods.

“Oh, oh indeed my Russian friend.” She teases him in a moment like this, the disbelief washing over both of them. She makes another face, “Illya, something isn’t right.”

He nods and gathers her up. They call in an extraction, they call for backup for the first time in two years as a team. Gaby is pulled from Illya and taken to the infirmary. Two test and an exam later, everything will be fine but, Gaby is removed from the team.

Solo goes to America.

Illya retires in a small cottage off the outskirts of Venice. He buys it because it’s small, off of the grid, and best of all it has a yard for small feet to run free in.


	44. Illya/Gaby - Reading Under Cover

**Prompt: Illya reads to Gaby after she is injured on a mission.**

The first bullet misses her head but grazes the edge of her cheek. The light wound nevertheless burns and obscures her vision. The second bullet strikes her shoulder and renders her down to the ground. Illya sees red.

The mission ends in an extraction with Gaby’s cheek and head wrapped in thick bandages with her head laying on Illya’s shoulder. The pain medication for her bumps and bruises has her in and out of sleep. Every now and then her head lulls over to Solo. e lets her rest there for a moment before looking over the top of her head to Illya. He carefully moves her head back onto their Russian comrade’s shoulder as the plane descends into London.

When Gaby wakes up, she’s in her own flat. The sparse decorations and familiar ceiling blinks into view and she reaches up with her good arm to itch at the bandage wrapped around her forehead.

“Try not to scratch,” a familiar voice echoes and Gaby winces at the way her head pounds before surprise hits her slowly, washing over her like a cold shower. 

“You’re in my home.” Gaby’s voice is raspy and she shifts in her warm sheets, wincing again as a twinge of pain races from her shoulder and down to her fingertips. Illya has never been in her home before. She can’t linger on the surprise of him being there; her shoulder throbs. The sudden pain makes her hiss and Illya puts his little novel down on the edge of the mattress, moving to her. His hands float above her for a moment, as if he’s afraid to touch her or move anything, like she’ll break if he makes contact. After a moment he braces his hands along her pillows and carefully slips one palm along the back of her head. He gently lifts her head and lays it back in the center of the pillows, making sure she’s set up. 

“I would not call this much of a home,” Illya murmurs, his voice is soft and almost playful. He’s still leaning over her and Gaby can see that he hasn’t slept much at all. There are dark circles under his ocean-colored eyes and a line of stubble that hasn’t been touched in days. Gaby resists the urge to move her good hand up and run her palm over it just to feel how human he can be. 

“What makes you say that?” she asks as he moves his hand slowly away from the back of her head. His fingers thread through her sweat-damp hair and then up to check her bandages. At this angle she can see all of him. His nostrils are slightly flared, his lashes are a dark gold color and touch the top of his cheeks when he closes his eyes. She watches the muscle in his jaw tick and his lips twitch as if he wants to smile at her question. 

He doesn’t smile. He simply moves his hand down to her wounded shoulder and checks the bandages there. “You do not have many books.” 

“Books are why my home is not a home?” Gaby scoffs softly and the little scoff turns into a laugh when he catches her gaze and nods firmly. Her lips twist into a bit of a pout and she shrugs. “I have mechanics manuals.” 

“Those are not books,” Illya tells her matter-of-factly. He lets out a soft sigh as he pulls away from her shoulder and taps the end of her nose with a warm, calloused finger. 

Gaby’s free hand reaches down, and she touches the novel he set aside “Well it’s cold in here could you turn on the heater?” she asks shifting under the warm sheets once more as her fingers pick at the edges of the leather-bound book. It is small, barely bigger than her own hands, and it’s well worn in. The pages are thin and full of small print. From what she can see, it’s all in cyrillic. 

“Radiator is not working. I will get you more blankets.” 

Gaby frowns but shakes her head as she toys with the novel. “I’ll be fine.”

She pulls the novel up a little higher and thumbs through it one-handedly as Illya sets back in his seat. Once he’s comfortable again his hand slides over hers and his fingers linger along hers before he plucks the book away. Gaby blows out a sigh and he goes back to reading. 

A moment of silence ticks by, and he turns a page. Another page turns and Gaby shivers. 

“Illya,” Gaby sighs and shifts once more in the bed. She tries to bury herself deeper in the covers and all her moving catches his attention.

“What?” His voice is even and low, thick with his accent.

She wrinkles her nose for a moment reaching over with her good hand to scratch at her bandages once more. Illya gives her a quietly little ‘tsk’ to make her stop, but she still itches at the edges for just a moment. A soft whine leaves her lips when he snatches her fingers up for a moment, his warmth sinking into her. “I’m cold and very bored, you’re doing a terrible job of taking care of me.” 

He sighs quietly and snaps the little book shut before standing. After a minute or so she hears the shuffling of clothes as he toes off his shoes and drags his hat off of his head. Before she can ask him any questions, he walks along the edge of the her bed. Her heart skips a beat as he crosses her line of vision and then; Illya’s fingers pull at the edge of the duvet. A moment of silence passes and he hesitates, waiting for her to tell him to go. When she doesn’t protest, he lifts the edge of the thick blanket and slides into her small bed. The springs squeak on the small mattress and Gaby doesn’t have a moment to protest before he’s wrapping a warm arm around her, drawing her in. He’s careful of her wounded shoulder, dragging her into his chest and letting her dark head tuck under his chin. His long legs have to curve around hers so he doesn’t spill off of the mattress and he wraps an arm around her back. He is warm and solid against her. Gaby doesn’t stop herself from snuggling in closer, fingers curling into his thick knitted turtleneck. The two of them barely fit on the bed, but Illya somehow makes it work. He opens the novel behind her back and presses his head into the pillow as he starts to pick up from the beginning. 

“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” His voice is warm, ghosting over the shell of her ear and she melts back into his chest, eyes fluttering shut. This is all new territory to the two of them. Her skin prickles with excitement as they cross a professional line. For months they’ve skirted around Rome, around near kisses and soft brushes of hand. Gaby can’t help but smile sleepily as she buries her face into her pillow, inhaling the sweet scent of home mixed with the faint traces of Illya’s cologne. One of his hands holds the novel and the other one rests on her hip, fingers spanning out and drawing lazy designs over the slope of her body. She falls into the sound of his voice and the way he weaves the tragic story of Anna Karenina, translating it into a rough version English for her. Gaby tucks her legs between his and he tightens his grip on her. It doesn’t take long for sleep to pull her under once more.


	45. AU - Going American

**Prompt: This could be interesting... Illya and Gaby's son marries an American girl.**

 

“Darling, zip me up please.” 

Gaby’s back is to him and despite all their years together, she still makes his heart skip a beat when she turns her head over her shoulder and pulls her hair out of the way, exposing the strip of tan skin from under a soft blush colored dress. He reaches for her, hands trembling and grips onto the metal tab before dragging it up her back slowly -- agonizingly slow. He pauses to kiss the back of her neck, lips lingering just to hear her give him a soft ‘tsk’ before he finishes zipping the dress. 

“We’re going to be late if you keep this up.” She chastises him softly and turns to face him, reaching up to instantly fix his tie. It’s not crooked at all, it just gives her hands something to do as she turns her head up towards her husband, batting her thick lashes at him as her lips purse. Gaby smooths the dark tie down and smiles, “And I for one do not want to miss Nikolai! Can you believe it’s been six months? Napoleon must be sick of him.” 

Illya’s lips twitch softly into something of a smile as his wife talks of his son and good friend. For six months their son has been away, living it up in the big city -- renting a room from their old partner while attending college. While Illya had fought to keep Nikolai in London for school, Gaby had given him the chance to explore the world a little. She had told Nikolai in their youth that she and Illya had traveled. Of course she had left out MI-6 and the KGB. They had left that life behind when her stomach began getting too big to cover up in meetings with Waverly. They had tasked themselves with finding loopholes and ways out of their contracts, in Illya’s case he could never return home. He had promised Gaby it was worth it though when their son was born. 

“The old Cowboy has probably bored him to death with tall tales.” Illya scoffs softly and Gaby laughs before hooking her arm in Illya’s elbow letting him steer her out of the bedroom and down the steps of their modest home, passing photos of the three of them over the years. Gaby pauses by the one at the bottom of the stairwell and sighs softly, her fingers brush the glass and Illya presses his lips into the crown of her dark head.

“Look how little he was! Now he’s graduating college and probably wants to be an architect like his father,” Gaby adds softly but they both know Illya isn’t really an architect. He’s made a good career of it though and while he went to the drawing board, Gaby went back under heavy cars and changed thousands of tires to pay off college tuition for their son. She lingers on the photo of the baby with bright golden hair and dark eyes. He was a good mix of the two of them, tall like Illya and resourceful like Gaby. Illya’s hand joined hers and he curls his fingers around her palm.

“Yes, he says he has news for us. Maybe he has job in London?”

“Wasn’t he dating that one girl from Cambridge before he left? Do you think they broke up?” Gaby asked as Illya steered her away from the photos, brushing away memory lane as he locked up the house and the two of them slipped into the car with Gaby driving -- because somethings never changed. 

“Maybe he wants to marry her.” Illya shook his head and Gaby shifted gears before gasping.

“Do you think he wants the ring? Oh it’s good for him to marry a London girl.” She sounds almost wistful at the idea of their son getting married, but Illya knows better. When their son was born, he was her shadow. 

Illya scoffs, “He could find strong Russian woman if he wanted --” Gaby sends him a glare and he coughs softly, tacking on -- “Or German woman. Good bone structures.” 

She rolls her eyes and depresses the clutch heading into the heart of the city for their favorite restaurant. Their son is already there by the time Gaby hands the keys over to the valet parking and she nearly knocks over the waiter as their son stands tall to meet them. He has golden hair slicked back and a sharp suit on. He smells like Napoleon -- or at least what Gaby can remember as she throws both her arms around him and squeezes. Her lips press to his cheek and he tries not to look embarrassed as his mother practically coos over him. 

“Mother,” Nikolai squeezes her back before gently pushing on her shoulders as his father approaches. Nikolai is just a few inches shorter than his father but, Gaby concludes he’s just as handsome. The three of them hug before finally settling down at the table. The restaurant is warm and beautifully lit with candlelight, there is also an extra chair and wine glass at the table but Illya keeps quiet as his son and wife begin to play catch-up. He orders for himself and Gaby, listening idly as Nikolai goes on and on about life in America. 

He talks of good music and up and coming authors that are changing the way the laws are in the United States, and thankfully he waits for the wine to be poured before dropping the first bombshell on the two of them. Illya nearly spits out the red liquid as Gaby’s napkin slips to the floor, mouth wide open.

“What?” Gaby stutters for a moment looking back and forth between Illya and her son at the table. 

“I said, I want to move to America. There’s more opportunity there for me. No offense Dad,” He holds a hand up to Illya and Gaby watches the exchange for a moment. The similarities between her husband and son are striking in this moment, “...There’s no room for growth here in London for architects. America though, there’s so much land developing. It’s a better opportunity, besides you two are retiring and probably want to travel.”

Gaby snaps her lips shut. It’s true, she and Illya are getting close to the end of their second careers -- they are planning retirement, something they never believed they would have while being apart of U.N.C.L.E. A moment of tense silence passes across the table and finally Illya nods and Gaby sucks in a sharp breath. 

“Is good idea. We will help you with whatever you need.” Illya nods and Gaby looks like she wants to object but he puts a hand on hers and runs his thumb across the bridge of her knuckles. This seems to calm her because she finally unravels and nods.

“Your father is right, we will help you with whatever you need.” 

Nikolai looks relieved. He exhales and sits up a little straighter in his chair before standing. Gaby and Illya both look confused before a small blonde woman comes to the table. Her accent is much like Napoleon’s own. She’s American and before Gaby can ask her what she's doing, she’s leaning in and kissing Nikolai’s cheek softly.

“So did you tell them yet?” The blonde asks and Nikolai murmurs a quiet, ‘No’ before Gaby reaches for her wine. She drains the glass.

Illya’s thumb on her knuckles slows and then he reaches for her own wine. 

“Tell us what?” Gaby manages to keep her face neutral. 

“Mom, Dad, this is Amy.” 

More silence stretches before Nikolai bows his head slightly, “My fiance.”

Gaby drops her glass and Illya curses low in his native tongue.


	46. Illya/Gaby - Russian Lessons

**Prompt: I love these two! Could I pretty please have a fic about Illya being horrified to discover that he gets turned on whenever Gaby speaks Russian, and then trying to hide the fact from Napoleon and her?**

His throat constricts and suddenly it’s two degrees too hot when she leans over the edge of the table. Her fingers drum along the edge of the crystal clear glass, making ripples in the vodka as she clears her throat and tries again. Her voice is low and drenched in something sweeter than honey, stickier than medovik stuck to the roof of his mouth. Part of him is horrified as his body begins to betray him so easily at the thought of her whispering those words to him.

“Da?” Gaby plays with the tone of her voice, brows going high and then settling as she pulls the glass up to her lips and throws back the last two gulps of the drink. Clear liquid dribbles out of the corner of her lips and he has to fight back the urge to reach over and wipe it away with the pad of his calloused thumb. Her not-so-small pajamas hang from her tiny frame, gap in the front, giving him a view of endless skin – just enough to stain his cheeks pink. He shifts in his seat, back pressing impossibly tight against the stiff hotel chair.

Solo nods to Gaby from over the edge of his newspaper. How he managed to get the hotel to supply him the New York Times is a mystery to Illya, one he doesn’t care to solve as Napoleon folds down the edges of the paper; “Try again and this time, lower your voice a little. This will make sure Leskov will fall victim to your charms.”

The American sends her a wink and Illya fights off an absurd wave of anger. He has no reason to be angry, they’re on a mission and it’s Gaby’s job to play distraction to a multi-millionaire arms dealer who has an affinity for women with talented tongues and coy fingers. While she distracts, Illya will remain point and Solo will infiltrate, gathering up the evidence U.N.C.L.E. needs to make the international arrest. 

Gaby drags her tongue over her bottom lip, cleaning up the spilled vodka as she revels in Napoleon’s words, settling back into the plush hotel couch and putting her bare feet up on the coffee table, toes wiggling and eyes bright. She’s had too much to drink. Illya can tell by the glassy sheen in her dark eyes and the flush crawling along the column of her throat. She pulls at the collar of her striped pajamas and clears her throat; “Vi gavareetye pa angleeskee?”

She draws her ‘e’s with an effortless ease, but ends up stumbling over the consonants like they’re jagged rocks, putting too much effort into her harsher consonants like she would in her own native language. German is close to Russian but they’re not identical and it’s obvious in the way she forms her statement that she is no native speaker but he can’t help but lose himself a little. She breathes out the last word over and over, asking if he speaks English. Something leaps in his chest and he wonders if the Cowboy can hear the sound of his heart pounding against his ribs in tempo with that of a war drum.

“Illya?” Gaby still has that low husky tone that sears his skin. His breathing shallows and suddenly the hotel suite feels too small. He tears his gaze away from her empty glass and catches the curious look on her face. Her head is tilted and all he can see is the sharp line of her jaw and the swallow that moves under her skin, dragging his gaze further down to the edge of those oversized pajamas.

His hands twitch and Napoleon’s newspaper rustles which snaps the spell that she’s drawn around him. Illya quickly moves a hand over and knocks over one of his chess pieces, giving off the illusion of hard concentration now broken by annoying teammates, “Yes?”

Napoleon regards him with a curious look. The American is smarter than he looks as his restless gaze flicks between Illya and Gaby, looking for the thread of tension being pulled between the two of them. His eyes land on the chessboard and then he smirks, which does nothing for the blush that’s now touching the tips of his ears. Illya bites back an angry growl as if to warn Napoleon to keep his silence.

“How did it sound?” She asks coyly through lowered lashes and he swears she’s using that tone just to taunt him. The soft accent of hers permeates the words and he is reduced to something less than an inferno, more like smoldering embers in the wake of her tone. He dares himself to picture something more than wrestling on the hotel floor. He imagines a hand on her throat, palm slipping down into the open neck of those pajamas and then the feel of her skin on his as she urges him on his native language.

The silence ticks through the hotel room and finally Illya pulls himself together, determined to keep his hot-blooded reactions to himself, “It was good.”

“Good?” Gaby repeats his words and plays with the glass in her hand, turning it back and forth to make the ice clink together, “Only good?”

“Peril, she has done remarkable, a little shaky but it adds to the charm of the chase.” Napoleon is there to soothe away the blow of criticism no doubt. Solo folds his newspaper and makes a show of stretching out his loose muscles, he’s long since ditched his tie and jacket, but now he claims the bed calls to him like a siren.

Gaby moves her feet down for Napoleon and he leaves them with his newspaper folded under his arm, humming lightly with a slow scuff to his walk, intentionally dragging his feet just to catch any bit of their conversation. Illya doesn’t give him the satisfaction. He waits until the door clicks tight and then a minute longer before dragging his gaze to the small mechanic who’s now fishing a piece of ice out of the glass and chomping on it. The sound of ice crunching fills the room and she lazily draws her legs back up onto the table in a very unlady-like way. Her toes wiggle and he tries not to think of his hand slipping up the gaping pant legs of those bottoms and palming the warm skin of her thigh as he gives her language lessons.

“Was it really only good?” Gaby asks and she’s no longer playing with that husky tone of hers. It’s a honest one now that makes him feel the tiniest bit of guilt welling up in his stomach. He lowers his gaze from her legs and she stands now, ice forgotten and edges around the table to him. Her fingers touch his cheek and he dares himself a glance upward. She is taller than him like this, but not by much. Even if he kneels she is still barely inches taller than him. His blue eyes lock with her dark ones and he falls victim to the endless depth they provide, leaning into her touch he shakes his head, careful not to spook her. He doesn’t want her to move her hand just yet. He wants to soak up this feeling just a moment more. This is the closest they’ve been since Istanbul and that was months ago.

Illya gives in, surrenders up the word with a sigh. “Better.”

“Better?” Gaby’s voice is a whisper now and all he can think about it, this must be how she sounds in the early hours of the morning with her cheek on his pillow and her snarled hair in his hands as he wakes her for the day. It hasn’t happened yet, but he dreams – and tonight will be no different as her fingers slowly pull away from his face and she brushes past him, leaving him to become nothing but ashes as she yawns quietly, “Good, then tomorrow I’ll do better until I’m best at it.”

He smiles at her stubborn desire to conquer the harsh language and then watches as she leaves him to rub at her eyes. The vodka is catching up to her. She slowly leans more to one side as she walks, brown pony tail swinging low against her shoulder. Gaby becomes victim to another yawn and Illya stays still and content – watching her slowly pad off and drag herself into her own room. She leaves the door open and he doesn’t know if it’s for the light of the common room or an invitation for him as he watches her flop into the covers and move around restlessly. She tangles herself up and he’s still debating on moving just as a soft Russian goodnight leaves her lips. Excitement thrums across his nerves and he’s left to suffer again as his thoughts run rampant and her snores fill the hotel room.


	47. Illya/Gaby - Comfort in Death

**Prompt: Imagine Illya is Dying and Gaby trying calm him until his death. Oke i love angst Illya!**

 

There is an ungodly amount of blood. Gaby’s mouth runs dry as her fingers press over his shirt. The blood is tacky to the touch, overwhelming her with the sensation of dread. Illya lets out a heavy sigh when her hands press over his stomach.

“Illya,” There’s a break in her voice, her lashes are stuck together, cheeks shiny with tear tracks. She presses her weight over his wound and more blood slips between her fingers. Her shoulders shake and gunshots are heard overhead as Solo keeps her back safe, he fires at the enemy and their hired goons, letting Gaby assess the damage of their fallen comrade. Napoleon lets her have the hope that at least one of them will make it out of the firestorm, but he’s already seen the damage.

“Solnyshko…” His voice is barely above a whisper, the faint sigh that follows the term of endearment makes her bottom lip tremble. Gaby leans over him, knees digging into the rough pavement of the warehouse floor. One of Illya’s hand moves over and his fingers tap and finds hers. His hand curls around her wrist and he holds tight to her. His thumb strokes down and she hiccups past another sob. “I am not ready.”

“You’re not leaving me,” Gaby shakes her dark head and leans over him further. Even in the dark she can see the bright shade of his eyes and the golden bits of hair that are now fallen out of place. His hat is lost somewhere in the warehouse along a graveyard of spent shells and bodies of fallen foes. Gaby’s hand on his lower abdomen sinks in when he shudders and Napoleon shouts something of them needing to move, “I can’t lift him.”

“We can’t move him Gaby,” Napoleon’s voice is strained and she shakes her head.

“I’m not leaving him.” She doesn’t tear her gaze from Illya. He is paler than usual, lips no longer pink but pale, parted with short breaths. His hand on her wrist trembles and he says her name.It’s the best thing she’s heard all night over the sound of gunfire and alarms blaring. They are running out of time. The sound of his father’s watch ticking away echoes in her ears, she can no longer focus on the danger around them. She can only watch the quick rise and fall of his chest as he stutters for breath. His breathing sounds wet – garbled. Blood is filling his lungs and she can hear the bubbles forming in the back of his mouth as her hand moves up his chest. There’s another bullet wound not far from his heart.

Her stomach sinks and he shudders against her touch, winces when he feels her poke the edge of the wound. It’s nothing he can recover from and the realization hits her hard.

“Illya,” Gaby wraps her fingers in his shirt. Her knuckles turn bloodless and she holds back a sob when his eyes flutter shut with recognition. She feels like the bullet has ripped through her and not him, leaving her gutted and in ruins.

“Gaby,” He manages her name and she sucks in a sharp breath, “I do not want to go.”

His thumb strokes her wrist and she nods to him, “I don’t want you to.”

His hand moves up her thin arm, up her bicep and finally he strokes the bit of hair off her cheek with calloused fingers. He holds his palm to her face and she can feel him trembling, just raising his arm is too much for him. Gaby moves up a bit closer and presses her cheek to his palm as he lets out another shuddering breath. His massive frame is wracked with tremors. He’s losing blood at an alarming rate and now those blue eyes of his, won’t even look at her.

“Ya lyublyu tebya…” He croaks out the broken Russian knowing good and well her lessons with him have never taken them this far. Illya lets his eyes flutter open just for a moment before he asks her to give him one last dance.

“Shh,” Her lips turn and kiss his palm just before it falls over his chest with a dull thud. Her throat constricts and she swallows down another sob when Napoleon steps past her vision and fires over her head, the sound of the shot is deafening. The world around her goes almost silent with a loud ringing in her ears as she leans over him and presses her palms onto his handsome face. Her fingers card past his five o’clock shadow and carefully slip into his golden hair where she hums. The urge to cover her ears is set aside as she hums an old German lullaby off-key. Their enemies return fire and Gaby can feel the heat of a bullet graze her shoulder, not quite striking her. She doesn’t move though. Gaby stays rooted to the spot, stroking Illya’s head..

“It’s going to be okay, we’re going to dance again. Every night.” Her shoulders shake as she attempts to keep herself composed. “Every single night.”

“Every night.” Illya repeats her words with the edge of his lips twitching in what she can only hope is a smile.

“Yes,” She nods, blinking a few times as a few more hot tears escape her. They cut through the makeup and dirt on her face, “Yes every single night my Russian friend.”

He murmurs something but she can’t hear him, she can only focus on the way his lips move and the way he leans his head in her direction. His lips are now a pale color, almost tinged blue. Without warning, she leans in and gives herself what they’ve been denying for months. Her lips graze his and she feels the last bit of his breath ghosts past her.

An extraction team is called.

His body is collected.

U.N.C.L.E. gives him a hero’s funeral.

Russia does not.

Gaby wears the old watch, the familiar ticking keeping her company when she stretches out in the hotel bed, searching the cold side of the mattress for his warm embrace. Eventually she’ll fall asleep with the promise they will dance again.


	48. Illya/Gaby - Dying Mechanics

**Prompt: Have you already written a fic where Gaby is dying and Illya comforts her? I absolutely love the blog by the way; thank you for keeping the fandom alive!**

 

It’s a gunshot that takes her down. Hot and impersonal, ripping through her dress and tearing into her chest. Everything is hot, burning, brilliant – hot. The air rushes from her lungs and leaves her ragged, desperate for a mouthful air. There’s no time for her to scream, she simply falls like a puppet losing its strings. The blood turns cold and gel-like when he finds her. She doesn’t answer him when he calls her name, she doesn’t even cry out for him. She simply turns her blood-stained hand over and beckons him in with curling fingers. Gaby wears white in a sea of red. 

The string of pearls around her neck is broken and scattered across the museum’s basement floor. Works of art hang half-restored around her on easels, but Illya can only focus on her and the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Her thick lashes are stuck together, heavily saturated with tears that have escaped down the sides of her temples and matted into her hair he spent nearly an hour pinning behind her with careful fingers just before their mission.

“Illya,” Gaby’s voice is so faint he wonders if he’s too late. His knees hit the ground, there’s no grace to him as he comes undone at the seams. The world around him unravels as Gaby’s sticky fingers find his wrist. Her palm closes over the glass face of his father’s watch and he reaches over her. His fingers skim the curve of her cheek and then down to the wound on her sternum. All his field training bubbles up in his thoughts, reminding him that this is a lot of blood – and chest wounds are mostly fatal when there’s no pressure. So he folds his palm over the darkest part of her beautiful white dress and presses down.

Gaby shouts. It’s a broken version of his name and the air stutters on the tip of her tongue as she clings to wrist, playing with the familiar strap of his leather watch. She pinches the skin there, reminds him she’s there, to look at her. Illya drags his gaze down and despite all his training, his hard stare falls apart. His blue eyes are wide, his lips are parted – he is unable to mask his fear. 

“Gaby,” He whispers her name quietly, afraid he’ll shout if he doesn’t control himself here and now. He drags his gaze to his palm and then to the puddle behind her. “Gaby, you’ve lost –” 

“I know.” She hushes him softly. Her rough hand is a small consolation prize. Months of dancing around one another and all he has to show for it is her hand tightening on his arm, silently begging for him to save her from the pain that is eating through her all thanks to a little metal bullet.

“Is going to be okay,” He lies and moves his free hand up now. He swipes her bangs back out of her face and takes the time to drown himself in the dark pools of her eyes. He swallows down the lump in his throat lets his thumb brush under her eye, down to the soft skin of her upper lip. He smears her red lipstick.

“No it’s not,” Her lips twitch under his attention and he hooks her bottom lip with his thumb and leans down slow and careful. He pretends to wash away all the blood and lets his nose gently touch hers. She trembles against the floor, scared to die like this, forgotten in a white dress.

“вы будете жить.” Illya breathes quietly over her and before he can do the honors, Gaby uses whatever strength she has left to turn her head up and catch him before anything – life or death, interrupts them. She kisses him hard. It’s a desperate sort of kiss that he still feels when the extraction team pulls him off of her. The burn of it lingers when they air rush her to an emergency room, nearly a half hour away to surgeons who will not treat her kindly. The mission is considered a failure.

Napoleon donates blood. Illya donates time.

U.N.C.L.E. relieves her of duty. 

Illya leaves for Moscow only to return to a beaten down garage in the English countryside, with a busted water pump and a nose for the most expensive mechanic in all of England.


	49. Illya/Gaby - Modern Spy Selfies

**Prompt: A gallya fic where Gabby and Illya are spies in the present day?**

“What if I told you to smile?” 

The edge of his lips twitch but Illya refrains from giving in. Instead he keeps his head low and hands busy, hooking one cable into another, tying them with talented fingers while she pouts.

“Illya,” She practically draws out his name in the silence of the office that is all dark glass and sharp angles. There are no filing cabinets, which means no paper evidence. Gaby however, has that handled as she toys with the phone in her hand, pausing to lean back. Her shoulder brushes his chest and her leg slides back into his, letting her sit gently on the edge of his knee. The sudden contact makes his throat tighten and Illya glances up just in time to be caught with the eye of the lens. Gaby’s thumb brushes the smooth glass of the screen and she snaps their photo before he can look away.

He does scowl though, through thick golden lashes at the slope of her neck just inches from his dry lips. Her pulse jumps and he licks his bottom lip just as the phone chimes in with the password to the computer she’s hooked to. 

“Oh,” She turns her head over, the tip of her nose nearly touches his own but he pulls back before they get too close and nudges her gently with hands on the back of her hips, towards the desk where the tablet lays like a bright beacon in the dark room. 

“Delete that photo.” Illya murmurs softly, letting his hands linger a moment too long. 

“No.” Gaby says with a final argumentative tone on her tongue. 

“Gaby,” He warns softly, but nothing comes of his warning. Instead he watches her work, plugging her phone into a small slender cord that attaches into a port on the tablet. The screen goes dark then lights back up. Bits of data are dragged from one screen to another as Gaby runs the tip of her finger across the glass fronts. 

“It’s just a selfie Illya,” She hums softly as she leans over the desk. The light of the phone and tablet cast her in a blinding white light while the rest of her is swallowed by shadows. 

“Waverly will not --” 

“Waverly won’t know. It’s just for me.” She doesn’t bother looking up. Instead his little hacker is working on diving into the operating system of the computer, digging for corporate ledgers that funnel the funds into markets that the government can’t quite reach. 

Illya scoffs softly, “You said that about the last one of those.” 

“To be fair,” Gaby starts softly, “You got a ton of likes from that last photo.” 

He can see her grin in the darkness, all cat-like and mischievous, reminding him why he broke so many rules and regulations just to kiss her. 

“I only care if you like me,” Illya says softly, retaliating against her argument about the photo of him she snapped while he wore her short robe open, crawling over her. She had promised him there, in between kisses that the risque photo was for her and her only.

Hours later it ended up on instagram and minutes after that, Waverly rang. 

While Gaby works on the technology, Illya finishes his knots. He’s re-tied Gaby’s harness for safety measures, they are moving against a very fast clock, one that will alarm them thirty-seconds before the state of the art security system goes off, leaving them to the dogs. 

“I think I’ve found it.” Gaby’s excitement is tangible. He watches as she bounces up on the tips of her toes, leaning over the desk. Her dark hair is tied high in a bun but several pieces of dark hair escape. Her bangs need trimming, they’re too long again and she blows out a soft huff of air just to temporarily knock them away. 

“Good. We are short on time and the Cowboy is waiting.” Illya’s harsh accent washes over her and Gaby turns her head up just to send him a wink.

“I’ve got their books. Lots of money going from here to this shipping company in Rome. Vinciguerra?” She taps the screen of the tablet and then furrows her brow as the screen turns a dark shade of red. Gaby taps it again and then panic slides over her delicate features. The tablet lets out a loud squeal and the screen goes black with red lines streaking through. Yanking the cable free of her phone, she stuffs it down into her pocket and grips onto Illya’s arm.

“Time to go,” Desperation bleeds into her voice and she yanks him away from the desk. The tablet’s squealing is joined by a louder sound overhead. The lights in the dark office illuminate all at once, flickering on with bright accusing beams. 

“What did you do?” Illya asks fumbling for a moment for his watch, trying desperately to tap the screen. The digital face of the watch flickers blue and then a small face appears.

“You two have triggered the security alarm. Don’t know how you did it, but every police officer this side of Manhattan is coming for you.” Napoleon’s smooth American tone is hard to hear over blaring alarms, but Illya holds his arm up higher as if to get better reception.

“How do we get out?” 

Gaby crosses the office for the glass doors but they do not budge. Locks have all slid in place, caging them in for the night. She turns back to Illya, “Looks like we can’t go that way. Any other plans?”

“We could go swimming.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“I’ve got a boat!” Napoleon chimes in, head to the south side of the building, break a window and use those super spy powers of yours Peril. Surely a sleeper agent like you can scale a building.” 

“Napoleon,” Gaby warns him soft and low, a growl escapes her as Illya goes dead still as if caught up in the shame of his past. He is constantly trying to outrun the shadow of a country that made him a psychological experiment. Gaby’s hand slips down the length of his arm and falls into his own. She squeezes his palm, “If you’re on the south side of the building. How do you expect us to get down twenty-stories?” 

“Can’t you use your phone to hack the elevator? Or is this how MI-6 caught you?” 

Gaby reaches over with her free hand and taps the face of Illya’s watch, silencing their annoying partner for good. She squeezes Illya’s palm one more time before pulling away, “Illya, we need a way out.”

He nods to her and glances back at the desk. There’s a heavy metal chair behind it and a few sharp columns hold up the ceiling overhead. Within minutes they are out. A chair falls from the top floor, bringing a sprinkle of tempered glass behind it. It falls into the Hudson while Illya pulls on Gaby’s harness once more, hooking her to him with a heavy clip. She shakes and he tucks her in, closer -- tighter. Her face finds his neck and he gives them a good tug for safety. 

“Gaby…” He edges along the broken glass, holding tightly to her. She digs her hands into the front of his vest and turns her head up just enough to catch his blue gaze, “What if I told you to smile?”


End file.
